#chain of iron table read

[draconic-desire]

hiiiii ive been brainrotting abt sunday and his triple face god thing abababah thinking abt him handcuffing reader and interrogating them with the truth thing he does to aventurine ARGHH omg questioning abt who they were with cos hes jealousssss AUGH you dont have to write anything off of this i just hope this inspires you ily

oh you have read my MIND. I’m currently in the middle of writing a fic with dr ratio interrogating reader like he did with mx. stellaron…but now imagining that with sunday?? wow.

i’m totally normal about this man. i swear.

Yan!Sunday x Gn!Reader

Fingers drum on the table, the only break in the suffocating silence engulfing the room.

“I’ll ask you one. Last. Time.” Sunday punctuates each word with another tap of his finger, and you gasp as you feel the Harmony sink its influence another inch further into your skull.

Despite the futility, despite knowing you’ve been trying the same thing over and over again for the past half an hour, you pull at your restraints. The metal chain of the handcuffs skitters along the table, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, but it does not budge from its steel attachment. You’re firmly and inescapably chained to the table in Sunday’s office, with said perpetrator sitting opposite.

He appears calm, but you’ve learned to notice the slight twitch of his eye, the falter in his normal smirk. His patience is one wrong answer away from shattering.

At your silence, he leans back in his chair, shaking his head. His golden gaze is chastising, almost disappointed. “Angel, you know I don’t want to hurt you. Just tell me who you were with.”

You only glare at him in response. Bullshit. You’ve lost count of the amount of times he’s forced truths out of you or affections upon you through the Harmony. The psychedelic pest in your brain is almost the norm by now, a poison he has slowly been feeding you.

Oh, Triple Faced-Soul, please sear their tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that they will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.

Those words are branded into the flesh of your brain, your soul. And tonight, if you tell him what he wants, even more blood will be spilled.

Sunday’s jealously is as calculating as he is. It’s a knife poised at the right angle to spear you, to pin you with accusations that you can’t talk your way out of.

Like in this instance, where he has deluded himself into thinking you are trying to leave him. He’s finally let you out of Dewlight Pavilion (you’ve learned that trying to escape the dreamscape is pointless, so you’ll take your freedoms when you can), and this is the first reaction you’re met with? Being dragged to his office as soon as you returned and invaded, prodded, and violated by the Harmony?

The pressure around your temples tightens another fraction, and you cannot stop the pained cry that escapes you. Rainbow streaks cloud your vision and practically pull the words from your mouth. “I was with friends! We were at the Dreamjolt Hosterly for a couple drinks, that’s it!”

Sunday merely hums as he stands and pads towards you, taking a position at your back. You’re unable to turn around to face him, but you can feel the weight of his presence, the promise of his power, as he wraps a hand around the back of your neck.

His breath tickles the shell of your ear as he leans in and whispers, “Liar.”

One word chills your blood to ice. “I’m not!”

The grip around your neck tightens in tandem with the pressure in your head. “Do you really think you can evade me, (Y/n)? My gales are perched in every region of Penacony, and THEY are by my side. THEY see all, hear all, know all.”

As if on cue, the Harmony rips through your consciousness, and it takes all your willpower not to pass out. Exhausted, you involuntarily lean back into Sunday’s hand, which seems to please him. “Now, tell me the name of the man who dared to touch what is mine.”

Clenching your eyes shut, you shake your head. You’re out of breath and stumbling along your words. “He was just being friendly, and he was drunk, we all were, and all he did was kiss my cheek; it was a dare, and I swear to you, Sunday, we’re just friends—”

“(Y/n),” Sunday interrupts. “His name.”

The finality in the Family head’s words sends your heart plummeting. You feel your resolve slip as the Harmony tightens its grip and goes in for the kill. You speak the name aloud, barely a whisper, and know that you’ve just delivered the man’s fate.

In your half-conscious state, you barely register Sunday removing your cuffs and scooping you into his arms. He tucks you into his chest bridal-style, his wings fluttering across your face. “You did well, my angel.”

“Please,” you breathe, your voice wobbly with tears, even as you feel the Harmony retreat from your senses—for now. “Don’t hurt him.”

Sunday merely leans his head down to place a kiss along your temple. “Enough of that,” he scolds. “The only man you should be thinking about is me. After all, it is an angel’s duty to obey their god without question.”

And Sunday is, if anything, a vengeful god.

For that night was the last that you ever saw your friend. Death in dreams was your only reality.

[ataraxiaspainting]

Stuck Replaying the Memory.

Yan Aventurine x GN (Avgin) Reader.

Synopsis: Life exists with the support of the Aeons, but malice is something humanity has reigned over for thousands of years.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, human trafficking, the reader is described having blonde hair and Avgin eyes, descriptions of past abuse (not from Aventurine), and major spoilers for Aventurine's backstory.

Word Count: 700.

a big thanks to my friends @harmonysanreads and @mochinon-yah for proofreading some of it!!

*~*~*~*

You were taught to keep your head down and your hopes just as low – hell seems like heaven this far beneath dead soil and skeletons of the past’s nameless victims.

Your new god makes no critique of your stance that is akin to a prayer’s and not a slave. Despite your posture being near perfect from the eleven or so past lords and ladies that would burn your skin and tongue with hot iron if you had done otherwise, you still find your posture imperfect. Impolite. There were screams and fires just moments before – your master and his new wife fleeing with guards, pleading for mercy that they had never granted to you – and then silence from outside your chamber.

*~*~*~*

“Hair like honey,” The man’s fingers brushing through your locks are cold and have long nails; the same ones that the woman caresses your scarred back with. “Eyes like jewels. Pretty rare little thing; there aren’t many of you left… If you misbehave, perhaps that number will decline even further.”

*~*~*~*

The divine starts to kneel before you – one of his hands caressing the tattoo on the side of your neck. 

It’s an odd sight; so odd that you have the urge to look up.

You don’t though, because you have been taught how not to get hurt when great beings bless you with their presence.

You hear him read your new name aloud. “Sun…”

You wince from the past memories of it being called in the places where dinner guests would populate the most on the estate. The gardens and the banquet table especially. They would gawk at you and give you all their unwanted attention. Your behavior would be evaluated and you would either be rewarded with gifts befitting that of a royal or chains befitting that of a dog.

“That isn’t your real name, right?”

 The question is raised with a tone that is often paired with your wrist, or worse your hair or ear, being tugged until you confess an answer to the presumption or question. Suspicion of treason leads to you getting charged for the crimes you did to help yourself – a small tunnel being dug with a spoon, a lockpick made from a bobby pin one of the maids put in your hair, bleeding feet from running as fast as they could carry you – most of the time you get hurt or put in a small room by yourself until you beg to be released from it.

*~*~*~*

“But if you listen, the promise to love you will never be broken.” His wife adds.

*~*~*~*

This god looks like you.

Eyes akin to a galaxy that has lost its stars. Flowing hair that reminds you of your lord’s treasure trove locked down below. There is a tattoo on his neck similar to yours, but has some imperfections that only you would notice. It says ‘Slave’ but the outline of the word seems a bit rough. The artist had an uncooperative muse it would seem.

“Do you remember me?” He asks. His tone is sweeter now – possibly from how he had taken note of the trembling you were trying so hard to hide. Your ears register his voice and your brain compares the many screaming, yelling, heinous voices from the past. The memory starts to play in your brain like an electrical shock one of the maids would give to you whenever you would do so much as to look past the doorway to the outside world.

“Kakavasha?”

“It’s Aventurine now,” Your old friend stands up holding the chain attached to your handcuffs. Something tells you they won’t come off any time soon. “We have a lot to discuss, [First].”

He swings the key in his other hand and puts it in his pocket.

“I’m not letting you go again.”

[angelesca]

w.c. 3.4k💀so much words for this crap / sunday x truckdriver!gnreader (dafuqq is this dynamic), small stories, 99% of the penacony cast are impressed by you(they should be), robin is a cutie pie, sunday is a closeted robin fan, you and sunday squabble daily, sunday your wonweek is showing💗, wrote this in the tumblr drafts vro🔥part crack [𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬]: 1 ┃ 2 ┃...

a/n: farted this out bc i got inspired by this otome isekai manhwa i was reading [truck knight taekbae] + aesthetics inspired by [who made me a princess]

darkness monopolised your vision ever since you got here; day time never graced you. the insulated walls do their job well—only the vibrations, the frayed edges of sound, can be heard. 

chains grip your wrists, the metal twisting into your skin, wringing it like cloth. ouch. what now? maybe if you fart consecutively, and hard enough, you can blow your way out?

"brother... why…?" vibrations again. 

"don’t… monitor… danger."

the iron door creaks. light shines a single ray though the gap, and like the sun, the radiance blinds you. you squint your eyes, tracing the outline of two silhouettes.

the taller one approaches, each stride covering an equal, set amount of distance without a lost beat. "i have one question," their tone dashes against the whetstone, pointing a sharpened blade at you. "who are you?"

their eyes did not welcome any light, no reflection of you in them, as if you were only a whisper of the air. you feel the cracks in your throat. "me? i’m just a truck driver."

you are having tea with sunday.

after the less-than-ideal introductions, the picture cleared: you, a truck driver, are isekai’d into penacony via truck inception(?).

"i apologise for my manners," sunday sips his cup. "when you... suspisciously appeared in my bathroom, unresponding, there was no room to be courteous."

"sorry about that," you play with the rim of your cup awkwardly. "i'm not sure what happened either." the honest truth.

sunday shakes his head. he's majestic. "so, you said that you were…" he taps his chin.

"a truck driver."

"a criminal?"

"... truck driver."

“an assassin?”

"..." you almost turned into one.

little did you know, your lone walk was accompanied by a slithering shadow. except... it was no shadow. it was a dazzling spotlight that had fans and reporters following her repslendent glow, as expected of penacony's halovian songstress: robin.

"you mentioned you were a truck driver," finally, someone knows what a truck driver is. "will you allow me to see it?"

yes, your truck teleported into the dreamscape too. how could you live without them? they sit by a pavement on penacony's streets, hoarding the stares of confused citizens.

you watch an infinite cosmos flare in robin's incandescent eyes. your truck is just that impressive. "wow...! it's so beautiful!"

"what a curious machine," a blue and blonde-haired pair are analysing. "a vehicle that inefficiently operates on wheels? rather old-fashioned."

"what in the ever-lovin' fudge? my great-great-great-great-great gramps had one of those!"

"a sight of blissful beauty blooms before my eyes. amazing!"

“where am i?” 

“acheron, it hasnt even been a minute yet and you’re confused.”

people's eager stomping tremble the earth and sky. it's just that impressive. in the distance, an extra pair of wary eyes observe you.

"i admit, i am still suspiscious of you," sunday crosses one leg over the other. "robin sang nothing but praises. however, i'm afraid i'll need you under my surveillance to prove your trustworthiness."

urk. possessive much? "why are there knives, swords, and rocket launchers on the table?" sunday cocks an eyebrow at you, expecting you to make a move. "... i'm really not an assassin, sunday." but you do know his entire life story, so you're actually his stalker.

suddenly. the room blurs. an annoying static repeats, plucking the sensory wires from your circuit. is he... is he using his thingamajig powers?

"you may not be one... for now." he looks out a large window. you follow his gaze. wait a minute. what are they doing to-

“MY TRUUUUCK!!!” your passion transcends boundaries, past the lower-case and forcing the caps lock. lunging, you rush outside the mansion. "HEy!"

"aaaaa!! run!"

"eeek!"

"nyaa~!" who the hell was that?

"what the..." you are stunned. how dare they vandalise your truck! "was this your order?" you turn to sunday, infuriated.

"what will you do now?" a corner of his lips lifts, provoking.

you clench your fist. no one messes with you, the best truck driver, and only truck driver, in penacony.

hypothetically, if you got hit by a truck and ended up here, could you, a truck driver, hit a penaconian and isekai them over to your world?

"hey, robin?"

"hm?" her smile is innocent, gazing at you with a prospering kindness deserving of its own halo.

you smack your head. a dozen times over. then a few more.

"hey, aventurine?"

"hi hi~"

you shake your head. wouldn't his luck interfere? if anything, you'd be the one to get run over again.

"hey, acheron?"

"who are you?"

doesn't even know who you are despite telling her a minute ago. if she ended up in your world, she'd be asking the same question anyway: "where am i?"

you pick your nose. she'd slice you in half. period.

"hey, rappa."

"dazzling ninja rappa at your service!"

"as am i, the dimension-trespassing truck driving ninja!"

unfortunately, ninja roleplay with rappa is too fun. every friday, you play dnd together and you can't miss it this week.

there's only one person left.

"hey sun-"

"don't."

you stare blankly. "i didn't say anything?"

sunday glares back. "if you are going to speak to me, do it in front of me, and not while starting the engine of your truck."

"tch... damn."

"could i use your truck as a stage prop for my next concert?"

"oh, what if it suddenly rains?"

"what if i accidentally trip?"

you notice a gap in robin's behaviour. "how come you're so nervous today?"

robin looks at you, mouth on the verge of speaking. she looks down at her shoes. "hmm..." she tilts her head, lips mumbling. she hesitates, unready to spill her heart.

there's one thing you do best. you suggest, "why don't we go for a ride in my truck?"

robin's hunched back quickly reshapens itself. it's been some time since you've had a passenger, but with the way robin swiftly adjusts herself in the seats, excited, you don't worry about the mess in the truck. you start the vehicle, ready to stroll penacony's streets.

you hand her a piece of unexpired candy from a compartment, and she accepts the gesture. it doesn't take long before robin settles herself afterwards. she sighs. "... it's my brother, he'll be attending a show for the first time. i'm a bit nervous."

"why would he not be supportive?" you question.

robin shakes her head. "it may be because my brother is a perfectionist. i can't help but believe that he'll be expecting a flawless performance."

halovian songstress robin, a nation-wide icon, for her, expectations continually rise without rest. but for now, she sits next to you as robin herself, without the embellishments and performing. a breath of fresh air.

words of reassurance may be able to tend her heart. "make as many mistakes as you want," you comfort, "you are robin yourself before you are a singer, a civilian, and a sister."

the candy in her palm is scrunched. her heart, opens. robin herself, smiles. not because she is expected to, not because she is told to, but because she wants to. "thank you."

on the eighth day, grant... sunday getting down on one knee for you. wasn't this a bit fast?

your mouth opens. "are you proposing right now?"

"what are you on about?" sunday looks up at you, eyebrows scrunched. in his hands, a riiiiiiiiiiing- no, he's just cleaning his shoes with a cloth. better luck next time.

robin suggested to use your truck like a cabbie. that way, you can still keep your pride as a truck driver, and provide ears for wary hearts:

a student struggling with academics.

someone who doesn't know which direction to take.

the ramblings of a doctor whose words are spoken with precision, slicing his words into the victim's flesh. but behind the gloves are trembling hands that only wishes to sew tight the rotting wounds of a poor gambler, if only he would let him.

a galaxy ranger who witnessed the brevity of lives in the isolated expanse of the universe, walked along the shore of nihility. she departs with you her true name so that when she returns, your heart can accompany her solitude once more.

a young girl who cannot tell if the blood on her hands are someone else's, or her own. every allude to life reminded her of a deathly fate. however, as your passenger, she is reminded that she can forge a life of her own, undecided by destiny. penance and redemption, then, in the end, she hopes to regain her humanity.

you've listened to them all. unlocked each of their hearts, always gave back the key if they ever wanted to return again. turns out, the people of penacony are not much different from those in your world.

robin would pass out if she saw this.

from what you remember, there were 88 doors in the oak family's residence (you're a dedicated fan). you've explored each one, door 86, 87, 88... 89?

a secluded door that can only be seen with eagle eyes. the mystery kindles sparks in your chest, flaming curious fires. you slowly open the door. 86, 87, 88, 89... robins? (one for every door?) they all stare at you within their enclosures, as either posters, figurines, or books cover. in the middle sat a familiar head of grey hair, lowered, back turned towards you.

"sunday?"

the head moves up. gradually, it creaks. never in your life, did you expect to see a robin-crazed hidden room, nor a red-faced sunday. oh robin, the brother you were so worried about, is actually your no.1 fan. sunday's halovian wings flap furiously, doing nothing to cool his face down. his expression seems annoyed to have been caught in the act. "... what?"

"is this your robin shrine?" this is it. this will be your revenge, and the beginning tastes sweet. "so, you're the real criminal out of the two of us."

one can imagine the fumes blowing out of his ears. his eyes glisten, on the verge of tears. oops, he's really embarrassed.

you turn your face away, allowing sunday as much privacy as possible within his very private room. or rather, you are avoiding his eyes to suppress laughter. "you're coming to robin's concert, right?"

"you coming?" you gesture towards your majestic truck. it's a beautiful night for a truck ride.

sunday, your victim, is reluctant, of course. he probably still believes that you are an assassin who will run him over. "i won't die, will i?"

you huff. "i'm just a truck driver. what's the worse i could do? kidnap you?" sunday stares at you, frightened. it does not take much for him to believe in your potential for evil. "it's a joke... i'm not a criminal. or an assassin."

"just for a few minutes," he resigns. score. you open the door for sunday, who eventually sits down. you start the engine.

"welcome." sunday is in your truck. what an achievement. heh. you place your foot on the pedal.

it is silent apart from the engine's buzzing. you hand sunday an unexpired bag of chips from the compartment. he receives it, inspecting the packaging. his eyes trail to the window, studying how the sunset paints penacony with autumn's palette, but beyond it, he is watching the dots of people. you watch the melancholic sunday.

"what's on your mind?" you ask.

"nothing significant."

"well, the whole point of my trucking service is to listen to passengers." you turn the wheel. honestly, you don't know where you're going, and neither does sunday. the moon guides you tonight, two lost souls. "say anything."

sunday fiddles with the bag of chips. "...maintaining the oak family status, work, the people," he finally speaks, "it balances on my shoulders."

you hum, signalling him to continue.

"wouldn't a utopia free from suffering solve everything?"

quite a hard-hitting question for a truck driver, sunday. you nod. "of course. the only problem is that it is not real - everyone is forced into the current reality. it is harsh and cruel..." you blink. "but we are not powerless to it."

"how do you suggest we solve it?"

it is quiet for a moment before your mind wanders to every passenger you've had. they all had one thing in common. "i guess, a lot of people want a shoulder to lean on, an ear to open for them, and a voice to validate their feelings. we can do that."

all those passengers seemed to shine brighter at the end of the ride, ready to chase a dream. you may not be saving the world - you are no hero, just a truck driver - but you help tend the invisible wounds of people: the blood that drips from sharp words, the bruises that sting from deprecation, the headaches.

isn't it fine to take it slow? navigate the dark, little-by-little, and by the end, there will be an even brighter light.

"... i see." sunday watches your hands manoeuvre the truck's mechanics. the flick in your eyes that turn to him, to which he shies away from. then, he rests his eyes. as the truck drives, a silence hangs, one of quiet understanding. bit-by-bit, you gaze into sunday's heart.

it's been some time since you got run over.

adjusting to penacony was difficult at first. you had to adapt to life at the family's mansion, and the daily customs. however, the burden was eased slightly, all partly thanks to a special helper.

every morning, a cup of coffee or freshly-squeezed juice presents itself in the kitchen. every afternoon, your favourite bookshop always happens to have the book you wanted, already reserved for you. every night, your bedroom door slowly opens, quietly. your blanket, moves up to cover your torso. the mess in your room, rearranged and picked up. the back of a hand, feathers over your cheek. and nothing more happens. your little helper is easily satisfied at the sight of a peaceful you.

"does robin know about this room?" you are flipping through an ancient truck magazine.

sunday is wiping the display cabinets. his wings are flapping again, turning to you. "you didn't mention it to her, did you?"

"no, but she's going on tour soon after," you play with the corner of a page. "why don't you send her your encouragement?”

"what do you suggest?" he asks.

you look at the ceiling. it's full of robin's pictures. "a heartfelt letter? personally, i would buy her a truck but i don't think she needs that."

a small laugh escapes sunday's lips. you did not expect that. "that would be nice." he moves over to a desk, and from a drawer he pulls out a page adorned with blue flowers, and a pen.

you walk over to his desk. "you're into stationary?"

"i don't see why not," sunday says, "my work requires mostly writing, after all."

he begins from the top: 'dear sister,'. from there, sunday is a bit clumsy and awkward, asks her how the weather is and if she had breakfast. "... i've never done this before," is what he said. but gradually, the pen picks up, and the words flow. now, there was too much left unspoken when sunday reaches the final line, and had to cross out the sentence he was writing. a total of four pages, both sides filled, with more words waiting to be said - those would be left for when the siblings reunite.

"maybe we can have the people of penacony sign it too." you smile, imagining robin's elation when she reads it.

sunday nods. he scratches his signature and hands the paper to you. "here."

you take the pen, hesitant. "what's this for?"

sunday raises an eyebrow. "you're a citizen of penacony, are you not?"

... oh. were you? your throat dries. when did you become a part of penacony? weren't you... just a truck driver?

sunday watches you contemplate. a silence drawls. suddenly, he wraps his hand around yours, holding the pen still. "why are you hesitating?" nib meets page. ribbon by ribbon, the ink dances. "you belong here, don't you?"

your chest grows warm. you weren't expecting that either. full of surprises, aren't we? the same person that chained your hands and observed you, coldly answered to you, is offering his warmth. his hand is resolute, unwilling to let go. it reassure your doubts. you smile.

the pen lifts:

'from, your loving brother and, your dear friend.'

surprisingly, sunday has gotten comfortable with your presence in his forbidden robin cove. as you have with his in your magnificent truck.

yet, as much as you've driven closer, the gap is bottomless. sunday doesn't appreciate you looking at him, yet, he's allowed to drill holes in you when you're not aware?

you've asked robin, but she answered cryptically with a smile. "he used to watch over me as well, overprotective as always, but i'm sure that's his way of expressing himself when words fail him."

you reccount the passing moments.

a person more of action, lesser of words. for his people, he worked endlessly without their validation. for robin, he hid in the shadows of his much brighter devotion and support. for you, he let you slowly seep into his life, and you absorbed him into yours. a truck driver and an overqualified partner-in-crime.

quiet devotion is a tender song. without the beating of his loud commands, penacony would be left unprotected. without the instrumental scratching of his pen, there would be no light on the streets. without the percussive clicking of his shoes, the citizens would not be able to dance and celebrate.

this was sunday's song; no one else heard it, but it hums beneath the surface, invisible. those who press their ears against it can sense its vibrations. a silence that speaks louder than words or lyrics. and now, you can't mistake it, your heart beats to the silent song.

it is the night of robin's last stage in penacony. you and sunday stand on a balcony, watching over her. the final song sways along the night-caressed breeze, setting free the wings of hopeful listeners and dreamchasers.

though for a certain someone, he was using more of his eyes than ears. when you meet his golden pair, they turn away as usual.

"what's with you?" you lean against the railing.

his hands hide behind his back. "nothing significant."

"hey, i thought we were past that already. i told you i'm a truck driver who listen to their passengers."

silence hangs. a few more spoken words, "and? have you told your story?"

"me?"

his eyes find yours, but they don't turn away anymore. behind his role as penacony's figure and as a brother, it is sunday who is talking to you. in his gaze, it doesn't judge, impartial, waiting to listen, asking if it is okay for you to lend him your key.

he's come a long way into this journey. now, he awaits at your doorstep. the words catch in your throat. "i'm... just a truck driver..." you close your eyes. "a truck driver who got lost here."

sunday shakes his head. "i’m not asking about one miniscule part of your life. behind that is you who experienced a reality that built the person in front of me," his voice is shaky. an unsteady hand opens and closes, hopes to reach out for yours, but is uncertain. "i'm... asking for permission to learn all of you."

"..." robin's song is about to come to an end.

you look at the mirror. a mirror that always reflected only you, now fits one more person in the frame. that is your answer.

the you who is listening, reading, watching, all your past versions converge into this quiet meeting. usually, the mirror rejected, criticised, and distorted. but today, it finally listens. the mirror holds your reflection to be true. before you got to penacony, before you stood in the middle of a road, before you became a truck driver, you were...

"speak to me. i'm here to listen as you have for others." and keep that key to his heart, for it remains open unconditionally, always a place for you in there.

two losts souls, under the moon, found a home in each other.

a person closes the novel they were reading. they pick up their phone and start typing:

“-4.2/5 rating, absolute horror. where was robin at the end? i was waiting for her! and what’s with all the mirrors and life lessons? preeeeetty criiiinge. i'm reading a fantasy novel, not a lecture. why is mc even a truck driver anyways? also, not enough hand holding, and definitely not enough kissing. zero points!” this random nobody criticises, slamming fingers on the screen. they pause. “i wonder when the next volume will be released…”

a/n: great use of my holiday tbh, get everything out b4 i'm busy again💖i hate drawing hoyo charas they're so detailed, applause to all the hoyo artists u guys r goated fr i thought itd be cute to turn this into a series. i have some deleted ideas since i only wanted this to be a short piece (i got carried away smh). but tbh this fic ended off nicely, i dont think it needs continuing. idk. i like pistachio ice cream thanks for reading!!😲

[velarisdusk]

Breathe Out Your Sorrows

Day 28: Captivity | Azriel x Reader word count: 10k author's note: WHEW. this turned into so much more than i intended but i couldn’t stop writing, i loved this dark, sick azriel. LOVED him. this is part 2 to Breathe In the Quiet, my kinktober day 24 fic! you could prob still read this standalone and be fine though :) warning! there are a lot of really fucked up elements in this one. dub-con, knives, blood (this is not cute knifeplay with tiny cuts, this is an actual dangerous situation), manipulation, uhhh i think those are all the really bad ones ✦ . Kinktober Masterlist . ✦

The first thing you felt was the cold. Icy, biting, and unrelenting. It seeped into your skin, clawing at your bones, making you shiver uncontrollably. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, lids heavy with exhaustion, and a wave of disorientation hit you like a crashing tide.

You weren’t in the market anymore.

Gone were the warm lights of Velaris, the bustle of the streets, the illusion of safety. Instead, damp stone surrounded you. The faintest glow from a torch flickered in the corner, casting dancing shadows against the rough, uneven walls of the dungeon. The air was thick with the scent of blood and decay, an overwhelming mixture of damp earth and something far more sinister.

Along the walls hung a collection of vicious instruments, as though they were nothing more than decoration—razor-sharp blades, iron clamps, whips with barbed ends, each more sinister than the last. A wooden rack stood in one corner, its handles worn smooth from countless struggles, while a table along the back wall was littered with tools designed for nothing short of pure agony. But the floor was disturbingly clean. No blood, no stains. An unsettling realization, as if the horrors here were scrubbed away with precision, leaving behind only the lingering sense of suffering and dread. 

A dull throb pulsed in your skull, each beat growing more insistent. You reached up to soothe the ache, but as you raised your arm, a sharp, cold sting bir into your wrists, yanking it back. Thick iron shackles clamped tight around your wrists and ankles, bolted to the floor, ensured there would be no escape. Despite the restraints, you still managed to touch the side of your head, feeling a warm, sticky wetness beneath your fingers. You pulled your hand away and peered down at it in the dim torchlight.

Blood.

Panic flared instantly, flooding your veins with adrenaline. Your breathing hitched as you tugged desperately at the restraints, the metallic clink of chains echoing through the chamber. The iron was heavy, and with every frantic jerk, they only tightened around your limbs, the cold steel bruising your skin.

Your heart thundered in your chest as your gaze darted around the room, frantic for any sign of an exit, any hope of escape. But there was none. No windows, no door. Only a narrow grate, no wider than your hand, carved into the stone for the thin wisps of smoke curling from the torch. The walls loomed around you, oppressive and unyielding. And then you felt it—the familiar, suffocating weight of being watched.

His presence curled through the room, heavy and suffocating. You couldn’t see him yet, but you knew. You knew Azriel was there, lurking just beyond the shadows, watching you struggle.

“Finally awake, little one?”

The voice slithered through the room, smooth and ominous. You froze, your blood running cold as his figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the dim light. Azriel stood there, tall and imposing, his wings partially unfurled behind him, casting long, ominous shadows across the dungeon floor.

He looked like a nightmare come to life. His dark hair was tousled, framing a face that was both beautiful and terrifying in its intensity. He wore a tailored suit, every line of it sharp, perfect. But it was his eyes—those cold, predatory eyes—that pinned you in place. The same eyes that had hunted you, stalked you through the streets of Velaris.

The same eyes that had caught you.

“You look so… delicate like this,” he murmured, his voice a low purr as he stepped closer, the clack of his boots against the stone floor deafening in the otherwise silent room. His shadows curled around him like living creatures, some slipping across the floor to circle you.

You swallowed hard, fear clawing at your throat, but you forced yourself to speak. “Why… why are you doing this?”

Azriel tilted his head, a slow, calculating smile curling on his lips as he crouched in front of you, his face mere inches from yours. His breath ghosted against your skin, sending a wave of cold dread washing over you. “Why?” he echoed, amusement flickering in his dark gaze. “Because I can. Because you’re mine.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you recoiled, trying to hurry back, but the short chains held you in the center of the room, your wrists aching as you strained against them. Azriel’s smile widened, a dark, twisted satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he watched you struggle.

“I’ve been watching you,” he whispered, his voice a silken caress that felt like poison dripping into your veins. “For so long. Waiting. And now…” He reached out, his fingers tracing a slow line down the side of your face. “Now you’re right where you belong.”

You flinched at his touch, cold against your skin, but there was nowhere to go. No escape. You were trapped. Helpless.

Azriel’s hand moved from your face to your throat, his fingers curling around it, not tight enough to choke but just enough to remind you how small you were compared to him, how weak. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he spoke again, his voice dark and wicked. “You feel it, don’t you? That fear? That delicious, sweet terror that’s running through your veins right now?” Your breath hitched, and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block him out.

“Look at me!” he bellowed, his voice sharp and dangerous as the hand clenched with terrifying force. 

Reluctantly, you opened your eyes, meeting his gaze, and what you saw made your stomach churn. His eyes were filled with hunger—a deep, insatiable hunger, like a panther poised to pounce on and devour a naive, unsuspecting doe. He was enjoying this. Enjoying your fear, your helplessness.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. “I can feel your heartbeat,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “It’s racing. You’re terrified, aren’t you?”

You swallowed hard but didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The fear had lodged itself in your throat, choking you, paralyzing you.

Azriel’s lips curled into a wicked grin at your silence, and he let out a low, dark chuckle. “Good,” he whispered, his voice dripping with sadistic pleasure as he pulled away to look you in the eyes. “I like it when you’re scared.”

His hand finally left your throat, and you let out a shaky breath, but it was short-lived. 

Azriel stood from his crouched position and circled you slowly, his shadows crawling over your skin, sliding up your arms, wrapping around your legs—until one slipped beneath your dress. You jolted, hands flying to press the fabric between your legs. This only made him chuckle as his shadows merely circled your limbs tighter. His voice was hushed, a dark whisper, like he was savoring this moment, drawing it out just to watch you squirm. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he began, his eyes darkening with a hunger that made your skin crawl. “How many nights I watched you. How many times I imagined this exact moment. You, helpless. Mine.”

He stopped a few paces away from you, his gaze never leaving yours as he rested a hand in his pocket. “I was patient. So patient. Waiting, watching, until the time was right. Gods, you’d always smile at everyone, walk the streets so innocently, so ignorantly. You didn’t have a clue what was going on around you,” his subsequent laugh echoed with something chilling and unhinged. “So many times I’ve had to kill them. Those males who thought they could have you. Creeping toward you in the shadows—my shadows—thinking you were alone. They had no idea I was watching. None of them ever saw me coming.” 

Your blood ran cold. No… that couldn’t be true. You would’ve known, right? But you realized with a sickening twist in your gut that there had been moments—those unsettling, unexplained feelings, eyes on your back…

“I was always so close—taking care of you. And you never had any idea.” 

His fingers brushed against something in his pocket, and your heart pounded in your chest as you watched him toy with it. “I could’ve taken you anytime. But where’s the fun in that? I wanted you to feel it, to understand your helplessness against someone like me.” His lips curled into a dark smile as he pulled his hand out—slowly, methodically— and held up a necklace. “Now you’ll know. Now, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

He dangled the necklace from a single finger, and a wave of nausea rolled through you when you recognized it. It was the one you’d admired at the market—only now, the gemstones adorning the pendant had been replaced with ones of the deepest blue. 

“You were looking at this, weren’t you?” he murmured, lifting the dainty chain slightly to let the light catch on the dark stones. “I went back and bought it for you. Thought I’d make it… better.”

Your stomach twisted as you stared at the necklace, the weight of his obsession sinking in. This wasn’t a gift. This was a symbol of control disguised as one—a mark of ownership.

Azriel’s fingers brushed over the pendant as he knelt before you and fastened the thin chain around your neck, his touch lingering a little too long, a little too intimately. “It suits you,” he whispered, satisfied. “Like it was always meant to be yours.” 

His gaze lingered, dark and possessive, and it was painfully clear—he wasn’t just talking about the necklace. The way his eyes gleamed with triumph told you everything. He believed you were meant to be his.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Azriel seemed to sense your defiance, and his smile turned sharp, dangerous. “Oh, sweet girl,” he murmured, his voice a low purr that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “Do you really think you can fight me? Resist me?”

He reached for your chin, tilting your head up to force you to meet his gaze. “I could break you so easily,” he whispered, his voice soft, almost tender, but the malice behind it was unmistakable. “You’d shatter like glass in my hands, and you’d love every second of it.”

His thumb brushed over your lower lip, and you couldn’t conceal the trembling breath that followed. “You feel that, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a silken caress that taunted you, that sent a wave of heat pooling in your stomach. “You’re finally beginning to understand just how fragile you are. How the weight of your fate rests in my hands.”

You bit your lip, refusing to respond, refusing to give him what he wanted. But Azriel wasn’t deterred.

“If you submit,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, “I might be kind. I can make you feel things you’ve never felt before. The good kind,” he added with a smirk, the warmth not quite reaching his eyes.

You shook your head, a soft whimper escaping your lips, and Azriel’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “Ah,” he said with wonder. 

He stood, his shadowy wings unfurling slightly behind him as he towered over you, his presence suffocating. “Don’t worry,” he purred, his voice laced with cruelty. “We have all the time in the world for you to learn your place.”

Your heart thundered in your chest, his words pressing down like a heavy stone. The room seemed to close in around you, the thick shadows at the edges of the chamber whispering as if they were alive.

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice hoarse but defiant, the words slipping out before you could stop yourself. 

Azriel’s eyes narrowed, dark amusement flickering behind them. “Oh, you still have some fight left in you?” His lips curled into a dangerous smile, his hand moving with deliberate slowness, a wordless assertion of his dominance. “I expected this. I want you to submit. I want you to be my well-behaved little angel. But breaking you is when I get my real fun.” 

With a subtle tilt of his head, the shackles clicked open, replaced by his shadows that coiled around you like a vice. They lifted you effortlessly to your feet and pressed you against the cold stone wall, stretching your limbs taut against its unforgiving surface. You squirmed in an attempt to break free, to pull away from the wall, but their icy grip held firm, biting into your skin with a chilling intensity.  

“You think you can resist me?” His voice was like velvet, smooth and dark. “Do you think defiance will protect you from what’s coming?”

Your lips parted, a snarl forming, but Azriel was faster. In an instant, he was inches from your face, his hand shooting out to grip your jaw with a bruising hold, forcing your gaze to lock with his. The intensity in his eyes sent your heart racing, a sickening mixture of fear and something else you refused to acknowledge settling deep in your gut.

“I know what you want,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath between you, yet it wrapped around your senses like a noose. "I can feel it—the fear, the rage, the way your body responds to me, even when your mind screams at you to fight." His thumb pressed against your lower lip, forcing it to part as his grip tightened. "Tell me... do you hate me for making you feel this way?"

Your breath hitched, the words catching in your throat. You wanted to scream at him, curse him for the torment, for the twisted thrill that pulsed through your veins despite yourself. But he gave you no time to respond before he released your jaw, his hand sliding down your throat to the delicate chain resting there.

“Your silence speaks volumes,” he continued, his voice thick with condescension as his fingers ghosted over your collarbone, trailing the elegant fabric of your dress that clung to your form. “But I’m going to get you to say it, one way or another.”

He stepped back, his wings casting dark shadows across the room as he moved with an unsettling grace. The tension built, thick and suffocating, as his hands came to rest on the waistband of his leathers. His gaze never left yours, a cruel spark igniting in the depths of his eyes as he undid the ties with deliberate slowness.

"I could break you," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. "It wouldn’t take much. Some pain, just a touch of pleasure." You felt the burn of humiliation bloom on your cheeks, your pulse hammering wildly in your ears as you caught sight of the sizeable bulge forming beneath his pants. "I could have you begging in no time. Soon enough, you’ll forget what it felt like to resist."

You clenched your jaw, fighting the panic that rose in your chest. You wanted to scream at him, to lash out, but your body betrayed you. A shiver sparked at your core, unwelcome and traitorous, tangled with the terror gripping your heart.

Azriel noticed. Of course, he noticed.

"See?" His voice was a dark purr, and he took a step closer, his body nearly flush with yours. "I don’t even have to touch you to get this reaction. You can hate me all you want, but your body… your body already knows who it belongs to."

“Fuck… you,” you managed to bite out, the tremor in your voice betraying the very defiance you clung to.

Azriel’s hands shot out, grabbing the fabric of your dress and tearing it effortlessly, the soft material falling away like paper. A sharp gasp escaped you as the cold air hit your bare skin, and you instinctively pulled back, only for the frigid wall behind you to meet your skin, as cold and unyielding as the look in his eyes.

“Oh, I think that’s exactly what you want,” he growled, his hand tracing the curve of your waist, the lightness of his touch mocking the brutality he’d just shown. “But I’m not going to make it that easy for you, angel.”

His shadows slithered across your exposed skin, cool and teasing, as they wound around your thighs and waist, keeping you completely at his mercy. With a fluid motion, Azriel shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it aside. You couldn’t focus on how he managed it, what with the wings; all that mattered was how good he looked, the crisp white dress shirt clinging to his muscular frame. As he rolled up the sleeves, revealing his forearms, your breath hitched. The taut skin, adorned with swirling tattoos, made your pulse race, a stark contrast to the darkness surrounding you.  Azriel leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as his voice turned dark, a silken whisper tainted with cruelty.

“You’re going to beg for it,” he murmured. “And when you do, I’ll decide whether or not you’ve earned it.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, the stubborn fire in your eyes flickering back to life despite the overwhelming fear gripping you. “I’ll never beg,” you hissed through clenched teeth, glaring at him with all the fury you could muster. “Not for you. Not for anything.”

Azriel’s smirk widened, amusement dancing in his gaze. He straightened, his enormous wings flaring behind him as he studied you with a predatory glint, as though your refusal was nothing more than a trivial obstacle he intended to crush.

“Oh, angel…” He purred. The shadows around him thickened, swirling like smoke, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop, a chill creeping up your spine. Azriel stepped back, his fingers flexing at his sides before one hand slowly reached for the hilt on his thigh. “You’ll be begging,” he continued, his tone colder now, devoid of any false gentleness. His hand curled around the handle of a sleek, dark blade, glinting ominously in the low light as he pulled it free. “You will. You’ll beg me to fuck you if only to end the torment I’m about to put you through.”

Your heart stopped at the sight of the blade, its edge sharp enough to gleam even in the dim dungeon light. You fought to maintain your composure, but the icy grip of dread was tightening around your throat. 

Azriel twirled the dagger in his hand with ease, the weapon seeming to pulse with the same lethal energy as its wielder. His eyes sparkled with sadistic delight as he held the blade, admired it. “This,” he said, his voice a whisper of silk and steel, “is Truth-Teller. Her name suits her well. She has a reputation for exposing secrets—cutting through lies to reveal what lies beneath.”

He stepped closer, the dagger’s dark metal almost shimmering with a life of its own. You swallowed hard. 

“Still so sure of yourself?” he mocked, his voice dripping with condescension. “Still think you won’t break, angel?” He stopped just ahead of you, the tip of Truth-Teller coming to rest under your chin, tilting your head up with a featherlight touch that belied the threat behind it.

“I’ve broken countless souls—people stronger, more stubborn than you.” His smile was cruel, the sharp edge of his sadism glinting in his gaze. “You’ll be no different.”

Your breath came in shallow gasps, your pulse roaring in your ears as the cold steel kissed the skin beneath your jaw. You wanted to fight back, to scream, but the primal instinct of survival kept you frozen in place.

Azriel leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Where should I start?”

And without warning, he pressed the blade against the side of your neck, just enough to let the edge bite into your skin. A sharp, stinging pain flared as the first drop of blood trickled down your throat. You gasped, your body tensing, but Azriel’s shadows held you fast, refusing to let you move even as the blade moved lower, tracing a slow path along your collarbone. 

“You’ll never beg, hm?” he mused aloud. Your mind raced, a storm of panic and adrenaline flooding your senses as the blade dipped lower, grazing the delicate skin of your chest. The shadows around your wrists tightened yet again, your fingers tingling with numbness.

“Azriel—” you gasped, your voice trembling with fear and rage, but he only smiled. 

“As much as I love the sound of my name on your tongue… Beg,” he demanded, the word sharp and cold as the blade’s edge.

“I won’t,” you spat, even as the tears burned at the corners of your eyes. “I won’t give you the satisfaction, you sick bastard.”

His gaze intensified, a storm of fury and sadistic pleasure swirling within their depths. “You will.”

Azriel held your gaze as he slid the dagger’s handle between his teeth in a chilling display of confidence. The blade glinted ominously as he leaned closer. With a swift movement, he reached for the delicate fabric of your bra. The sound of tearing echoed in the dim space, sharp and final, as he pulled it apart. You gasped, shock and humiliation flooding your senses as you watched it fall to the ground. His hands moved down to your underwear, and with the same brutal efficiency, he tore it away—leaving your dignity in shreds along with it.

The chill of the air against your most sensitive skin only heightened the horror of the situation, but Azriel wasn’t done. He grabbed the dagger and stepped back slightly, his wings creating a dark silhouette behind him as he admired you with a twisted sense of satisfaction. 

“Still so stubborn.” He traced the blade across your abdomen now, a thin red line left in its wake. “A shame, really. All this pride, and no one here to see it stripped away.” He pressed the tip of the dagger into your side, just enough to draw blood, and you couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped your throat.

“There it is,” Azriel groaned, his tone full of sick pleasure. “I love the pretty little sounds you make.” Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your mind spinning as he pulled the dagger away, your blood staining its dark edge. Vision blurring with tears, the fear and pain radiating through you overwhelmed your senses. You fought against the sob that threatened to escape, biting your lip until you tasted blood, but Azriel was relentless. 

He stood flush against you now, his dark wings curling protectively around the both of you, creating an intimate cocoon as he raised the blade once more. 

"You can stop this," he whispered, his tone almost gentle as if he were offering you salvation. "All you have to do is beg me. Say it. Tell me what I want to hear."

Your body trembled, every fiber of your being screaming at you to give in, to make the pain stop before it got worse. But even as your eyes stung, even as your heart raced with terror, you clenched your jaw, forcing the words past your lips.

“Go… to hell.”

Azriel’s eyes flashed. “Oh, angel,” he purred, his hand caressing your cheek in mock affection. “I really wish you hadn’t said that.”

In an instant, he thrust Truth-Teller into your thigh, the pain exploding through you like a lightning strike. A choked scream tore from your lips as the cold steel pierced your flesh, a searing heat radiating from the wound. The shock sent your vision spiraling, the world around you dimming as you fought against the pain that clawed at your senses. Glancing down, you saw the dagger embedded shallowly, crimson oozing from the wound and trickling down your leg. You desperately hoped it hadn’t struck anything vital; he likely wouldn’t want to kill you—not yet. Dragging this out seemed far more his style. When he pulled the dagger out, more blood trickled down your leg, the warmth mixing with the sharp agony and flooding your body with a dizzying rush.

Azriel watched you with a dark satisfaction, his gaze never leaving yours as you writhed against the restraints, your body trembling. He leaned in closer, the dagger still gleaming with your blood.

“There it is,” he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “That’s the sound I’ve been waiting for.”

The agony radiated through you, a white-hot flame that ignited every nerve ending. You gasped for breath, trying to steady yourself against the sharp edge of the pain, but Azriel’s presence only deepened the ache. You gritted your teeth, refusing to show any further weakness. But as the pain began to ebb, something else took hold—an unsettling awareness of him, the predatory gleam in his eyes igniting a twisted sense of anticipation.

With a twisted smile, he pressed the blade lightly against your lips, enjoying the way you instinctively recoiled. “Let’s make this a bit more personal, shall we?” he taunted. “Open up for me.”

You hesitated, but the cruel glint in his eyes forced your mouth open. He wiped the blade clean on your tongue, dragging it along the moist surface before pulling it away, leaving you to taste the metallic sting of your own blood. 

“Look at you,” he purred, his voice thick with amusement as his hand slid between your thighs, close but not quite touching. “Trying so hard to resist me. But I bet you’re dripping for me already. If I checked right now, you’d just soak my fingers, wouldn’t you?” His thumb grazed the sensitive skin near your core, and your hips jerked involuntarily, a choked sound escaping your throat before you could stop it, and Azriel’s dark laugh sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

“Oh, don’t be ashamed,” he taunted, pressing his thumb against your clit now, circling slowly, torturously. “You can’t help it. You want this—you want me. As much as you hate it, your body knows what it wants.”

You couldn’t help the desperate whimper that escaped your lips, the humiliation of it sending a flush of heat through your cheeks. You hated him for this, for kidnapping you, for torturing you, for stabbing you; for turning your own body against you, for making you want him even when every fiber of your being screamed that this was wrong.

But that was the worst part—you didn’t want him to stop. You didn’t want the game to end.

Azriel’s lips ghosted over your throat, his shadows slithering their way up your arms and legs, wrapping around you like a dark caress. “I told you,” he purred, his voice as smooth as silk, “I’ll break you. And when I do, you’ll thank me for it.”

His hand slipped lower, and you couldn’t stop the gasp that tore from your throat as he finally plunged his fingers deep inside you with cruel precision. You arched against him, the pleasure overwhelming, but he wasn’t gentle. His pace was brutal and relentless, and you were caught between the pain and the pleasure, your body trembling as you fought against the wave crashing over you.

“Azriel—” His name slipped from your lips before you could stop it, and you saw the dark gleam of victory in his golden eyes as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear.

“That’s it, angel,” he whispered, histone one of dark satisfaction. “Say my name. Let me hear you beg for more.”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him that satisfaction again. But he only laughed, the sound dark and twisted, as he pulled his fingers away just as you grew accustomed to them.

“You ignoring me now?” he growled, gripping your chin to force your gaze back to him. The scent of your arousal lingered on his fingers and ebbed through the room.

A twisted grin crept onto his lips, and you could see the darkness swirling in his eyes. “You want me to get a bigger knife?” he taunted, letting the question linger in the air, heavy and menacing.

“No, no, no!” The words escaped your lips in a frantic rush, panic flooding your veins. “Please, Azriel, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he interrupted, his tone dripping with mockery. “Don’t give you what you deserve? You think I’m being too cruel? You asked for this, angel. You put yourself in my hands.”

“I didn’t put myself anywhere!” you screamed, your voice breaking under the weight of your rage and fear and pain. “You stole me away! This isn’t my choice, it’s yours!”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed, his grin vanishing as something colder, sharper settled over his expression. His grip on your chin tightened. “Choice?” he echoed, voice soft but filled with venom. “You think you’d choose anything different if you knew what was good for you?”

He leaned closer, his gaze holding yours captive, his breath brushing your cheek. “You’ve belonged to me far longer than you realize, angel. There’s no choice in that—no escape.” His fingers traced along your jaw, deceptively gentle, before he wiped his slick fingers clean across your lips and cheeks, smearing it on your skin. 

“Keep telling yourself this isn’t what you want,” he murmured, turning away from you, the hint of a challenge in his voice. “I’ll go all the way back to Velaris for a few days, take care of some things. It should give you some time to think things over. How’s that sound?”

All the way back to Velaris. The words echoed in your mind, sinking like stones in your stomach. He’d brought you far enough that he was confident that not a soul would come looking. The High Lord couldn’t have sent for this. He couldn’t know. What would he say if he did? What would he do if he realized that one of his most trusted had taken a civilian, had hidden her away in some forsaken cell beyond reach, beyond hope? All for what—so he could use and abuse you? 

“A little quiet now, hm? What’s wrong, angel?” he called over his shoulder, his tone almost casual as he fastened his pants back up. 

“...Don’t go…” The words slipped from your lips, barely more than a whisper, fragile and small. You didn’t want him to leave you here alone, hurt and bleeding. The thought of being abandoned in this cold, dark place twisted your insides with fear. What if he didn’t come back? What if you were left to suffer without food or water, trapped in silence with your pain?

Azriel paused mid-step, a smirk playing at his lips as he turned to face you, his eyes glinting with delight. “What was that?” His voice was low and smooth, wrapping around you like a shroud.

You swallowed hard, a lump forming in your throat. “...Don’t go,” the plea escaped you, trembling with desperation. 

His smile widened, satisfaction radiating from him as he stepped closer, invading your space. “Oh? A sudden change of heart…” His tone dripped with mockery, and he leaned in, his gaze piercing. “You want me to stay? You’d rather have me keep hurting you than be alone?”

You held your breath, heart racing as you struggled to take your mind off the wound in your thigh. “I—I just…” You couldn’t find the words, your mind a whirlpool of fear and longing. 

“You’re helpless without me,” he continued. “Lost, just a little thing waiting for someone to take care of you. Who else would keep you company, hm? Who else would make sure you’re protected and safe?”

“I don’t want you to hurt me anymore,” you choked out against your dry throat, desperation coating each word. “You’ve made your point. Just don’t leave me here. I can’t… I can’t be alone like this.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow, a predatory grin spreading across his face. “Are you sure? You sure you don’t need me to hurt you some more to knock some sense into you?” He casually placed his hand back on the hilt of his dagger, a glint of menace in his eyes.

Your heart plummeted, a heavy stone of dread sinking into your chest as you registered his movement. Panic surged through your veins like wildfire, igniting every nerve ending. You thrashed against the restraints, your breath quickening, pulling against the shadows as you fought for release. “No, no! Please, don’t do it!” The words came out as a desperate wail, raw and fractured, tears streaming down your cheeks as you grappled with the overwhelming fear of what was to come. “I can’t—please! I’ll do anything! Just don’t hurt me again!”

He stepped closer, cradling your face with his hand, his thumb brushing away your tears with a disarming tenderness that twisted your insides. “Easy now, angel. Calm down. It’s alright,” he murmured, his voice a soft lullaby laced with a dark undercurrent that made your heart race in terror and confusion. “You’re safe with me.”

As he spoke, his warmth enveloped you, a strange comfort that made your breathing steady, even as dread coiled in your stomach. You fought against the whirlwind of emotions, struggling to process the truth of his words.

“Now, if you don’t want me to hurt you,” he said, his tone honeyed, “you’ll have to tell me what you do want.”

You hesitated, a lump of shame and fear forming in your throat. “I want… to be left alone. I want you to let me go.”

He shook his head slowly, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “I know you’re lying. The smell of your arousal has been thick in this room since you woke up.” His gaze bore into yours, challenging you to deny the truth.

“Tell me again, what do you want?” he pressed, his tone deceptively sweet.

You swallowed hard, the truth clawing its way to the surface, a torrent of shame and desperate longing. “I want you to touch me.”

His grip on your jaw tightened, rough and possessive, holding you in place as he leaned in closer. “Now, that’s not how you ask for things, is it?”

“Please…” The word fell from your lips, fragile and yearning, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy the monster before you.

“Try again,” he urged, eyes dark with hunger, his anticipation palpable in the air between you.

“Please,” you repeated, your voice trembling. “I want you to touch me. I need you to touch me.”

With each plea, the desperation clawed at your insides. Maybe if you just told him what he wanted to hear… “I want your hands on my skin,” you gasped, shame mingling with need. “I want you to make me feel good—please, Azriel.”

“Please, I need you,” you cried, your voice cracking. “I want to feel you inside of me, I want you to make me feel good. I want you to use me, to claim me.”

“Make me yours,” you begged, each word spilling out in a desperate rush of heat as you struggled against the shadows binding your arms away from him. “I want to feel you, every inch of you. Please, just touch me, fill me up… I want to be yours, completely.”

A heavy silence enveloped you, the air thick with tension as he stared at you, his expression unreadable. Time stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity, and your heart raced, dread and anticipation swirling within you. Just when you thought you might break under his gaze, he spoke, his voice laced with wonder.

“I knew you’d come around,” he said, a dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “I always knew you were a smart girl.”

With that, his hands descended, fingers brushing against your skin with deliberate slowness, teasing the edges of your vulnerability. He traced the outline of your breasts, his touch both electrifying and infuriating, each caress igniting a fire within you. You arched your back instinctively, desperate for more, but he only chuckled, enjoying the game.

“Tell me, angel,” he murmured, his voice low and sultry, “how do you want to feel? What do you want me to do?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, trapped by the heat coursing through you.

A flicker of impatience crossed his face, and in an instant, his hand connected with your cunt, a sharp slap that sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure through you. “Answer me,” he demanded, voice sharp and commanding.

“Please, Azriel!” you gasped, urgency flooding your voice. “I want you to touch me, to make me feel everything.”

“Good girl,” he praised, his fingers now exploring, slipping between your thighs, brushing against your slick folds. His touch was both gentle and ruthless, a dance of pleasure that made your heart pound. He took his time, reveling in the way your body responded to him, the way you quivered under his touch.

His fingers played with your clit, circling and teasing, drawing out soft whimpers from your lips. “Feel that? This is what you wanted all along.” He watched you intently, his gaze drinking in every reaction, every twitch of your body.

“Now tell me again,” he coaxed, pressing deeper, his fingers sinking into you, “what do you want?”

Your voice failed you as a loud, throaty moan pushed past your lips instead.

“Beautiful, but not quite what I’m looking for,” he said, his tone mocking as he delivered another sharp slap to your sensitive heat, making you cry out. “I need to hear you say it. What do you want, my angel?”

“I want to feel you inside me!” you sobbed, the words spilling out in a rush. “Please, Azriel, I want you to fuck me!”

“There you go,” he murmured, a smile more beautiful than eerie spreading across his face—the first like it that you’d seen from him. His fingers curled inside you, coaxing and pushing you closer to the edge. His other hand wrapped around the back of your neck, holding you steady as your foreheads met, neither of you looking away from the other for a moment. The intensity of his gaze anchored you, making every pulse of sensation feel more profound, more consuming. 

He pumped his fingers into you with a brutal urgency, each thrust deep and unyielding. The force of his movements sent shockwaves through your body, the slick sound of his fingers pumping into you filled the air, drowning out your whimpers and gasps as he worked you. 

Azriel added a third finger, the sensation igniting a fire in your core that was impossible to ignore. His fingertips pressed against that sensitive spot deep inside, hitting it with punishing precision that made you gasp and writhe. 

“Look at you,” he growled, voice thick with satisfaction as he watched your face contort between pleasure and pain. “So eager for it, so ready to fall apart for me.” He quickened the pace, fingers jackhammering in and out of you, but it was his words that pushed you over the edge. A wave of heat surged through you, igniting every nerve ending with a ferocity that eclipsed the sharp ache in your leg. Your body clenched around his fingers, a pulsing rhythm that felt primal and consuming.

He chuckled softly, the sound deep and sardonic as he watched you come down from your high. “Oh, sweet girl,” he tutted, amusement in his eyes.  “You’ll learn not to cum without my permission, don’t worry. I’ll be here to train you, we’ll have plenty of time to go over all my rules.”

His words washed over you like a distant echo, the remnants of your climax still vibrating through your body. All you could think about was how you wanted—needed—to touch him, to feel him against your skin. You squirmed against the shadows, desperation clawing at you as you met his gaze, wide and pleading. “Please… can I touch you?”

He leaned in with a predatory glint in his eyes. “Oh, you want to touch me, do you?” The way he said it was almost a taunt, and your heart raced at the thought of being freed from your restraints.

“Yes! Please, I need to feel you.” Your voice was thick with desperation, the aching longing for him driving every word. “Just let me… I promise I’ll be good.”

He regarded you for a long moment, the air between you thick with tension. Finally, he leaned back slightly, fingers still curled around the back of your neck, and considered your request. “If I let you, you have to promise to follow my lead, to obey. One step out of line and it’s right back–”

You nodded fervently, heat filling you once more at the idea of being able to touch him. “I promise! I’ll do whatever you say.”

His gaze locked onto yours, the predatory glint in his eyes making your heart race as he weighed your request. The silence stretched between you, heavy with anticipation. Finally, he made his decision, a smirk ghosting over his lips. With a flick of his wrist, the shadows binding you retreated, and you let out a shaky breath, relief flooding your senses. But before you could fully regain your balance, he caught you, his strength effortlessly cradling you against him as your injured leg buckled beneath you.

“Easy there,” he murmured, his voice mellow. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the table against the far wall. The shadows surged around him, sweeping aside the array of wicked instruments scattered across its surface, clearing the space just for you. With a gentle yet firm motion, he laid you down, the coolness of the surface contrasting sharply against the heat radiating from your skin.

He climbed over you, his body a delicious weight, as he closed the distance between you. The first brush of his lips against yours ignited a wildfire of sensations, overwhelming you in a rush of heat and longing. He kissed you with a hunger that felt almost desperate, devouring you with a need that matched your own. His mouth moved against yours, slow at first, savoring the taste of your lips.

“You’re so sweet,” he murmured against your mouth, his breath mingling with yours. “I can still taste you.”

From when he wiped his fingers over your mouth earlier, you realized. With that, he pulled away and off the table, his dark eyes glimmering with satisfaction. Azriel pulled you closer to the edge of the table, wrapping your legs around his head with a possessive grip.

He wasted no time, his mouth on you like a starved male. His tongue flicked and danced, eager to taste you, and you gasped at the sudden rush of sensation. The warmth of his mouth enveloped you, sending ripples of pleasure coursing through your core. He licked with fervor, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he pulled you closer, encouraging you to let go, to surrender completely to the ecstasy he was offering.

Every flick of his tongue, every hungry suck sent your mind spiraling, drowning in a sea of pleasure and need. The world around you faded, leaving only the intense sensations as he feasted on you, the sound of your pleasure echoing off the cold stone walls.

“Azriel…” you gasped, the name escaping your lips like a prayer, urging him on as you pressed your body closer to him, craving more, needing more. His name continued to fall from your lips like a desperate plea, each syllable laced with urgency as he continued his relentless assault. You could feel the tension coiling tighter within you, the overwhelming pleasure almost blinding. His mouth worked with an insatiable hunger, devouring you with every flick and thrust of his tongue.

The sensations were electrifying, the way he alternated between teasing and consuming you. He knew exactly how to draw out your pleasure, his tongue dancing against you with skillful precision, making you writhe beneath him. You could hardly focus on anything else, each pull and lick sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body, muffling the pain from your stab wound into a dull throb.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly against your skin. “So responsive. So eager for more.” His breath was hot against you, the sound of his satisfaction fueling your desire even further.

“Please,” you begged, your voice full of desperation and need. “I can’t… I can’t hold on much longer.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rich with satisfaction, and the vibration sent shivers coursing through you. “Good. I want you to let go.” His words ignited a fire deep within you, pushing you closer to the precipice.

Just as the tension peaked, the sensation reached a fever pitch, he pulled back slightly, leaving you teetering on the brink. “What’s wrong? Can’t you take it?” His eyes sparkled with wicked delight, and his face glistened with your arousal.

“Azriel! Don’t stop—please, just don’t stop!” You thrashed against the table, the need clawing at you, the ache for release nearly unbearable.

He smirked, the dark glimmer in his eyes promising more. “That’s better. But you know the rules now. You have to ask nicely.”

“Please, please… I need to cum,” you whimpered, your hands threading through his hair, desperate for his touch. “I want to feel you make me cum. I need you, Azriel. Please, can I cum?”

His fingers gripped your thighs even tighter, pressing down just enough to keep you from squirming. “Such a good girl,” he cooed, and with a wicked grin, he dove back in, his mouth devouring you once more. The combination of his roughness and your desperate need for release was intoxicating, and you felt the pressure build within you again, faster this time, more intense.

As he continued his relentless ministrations, the world around you faded into a blur. You could feel the walls closing in, the sensation of the table beneath you fading into insignificance as you focused solely on him, on the way his mouth worked against you, pulling you back to that dizzying height of pleasure.

Then, without warning, he pulled away again, leaving you gasping and trembling, the edge tantalizingly out of reach. “Not yet,” he said, the corners of his lips twitching upward as he watched you writhe in frustration.

“Why are you doing this?” you cried, the frustration mingling with need, desperate tears prickling at your eyes.

“Because, angel,” he replied languidly, “you need to learn patience. And how to ask for what you want.”

Your heart raced, every fiber of your being screaming for release as you met his gaze, desperation clawing at your insides. You could feel the weight of his dark satisfaction pressing down on you, but beneath that, there was a flicker of hope. Maybe if you asked just right…

“Azriel…” you breathed, your voice soft and trembling. “Please… I want to feel you inside me. I need to cum so badly. I’ll be so good for you, I promise.” You let the sweetness of your tone wrap around your words, pouring all your need into that one plea. “Just let me cum, please. I need to feel that pleasure with you. I want you, all of you.”

He paused, his expression shifting as he seemed to consider your request. The intensity of his gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the world outside faded into oblivion. “Such a sweet little thing,” he mused, and the praise sent a thrill of excitement coursing through you.

“Please,” you whispered again, your voice barely more than a breath. “Let me cum. I promise I’ll be good.”

The moment hung heavy in the air, charged with unspoken promises and desires. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile, he nodded. “I know what you’re doing, angel, using your words so sweetly like that. But I think you’ve earned it.”

With a swift, fluid motion, he buried his mouth against you once more, his tongue working with renewed intensity as he coaxed your pleasure to the forefront. The tension built rapidly, spiraling out of control as your body instinctively moved against him, chasing that elusive high.

“Yes! Just like that!” you gasped, every nerve ending alight as he pushed you closer to the edge, his fingers burying themselves into you with a fervor that left you breathless. The world narrowed down to the sensation of him, of the way he moved and the heat building within you.

And then, with a sharp, electrifying pull, the dam broke. Pleasure washed over you in a wild, chaotic wave, crashing against your senses as you cried out his name. Your body shuddered, the culmination of all your need flooding through you, eclipsing everything else until there was nothing but the sweet release and the aching satisfaction that followed.

As the last ripples of your orgasm faded, you were left breathless and trembling, the heat still coursing through your veins. But Azriel wasn’t finished. He pulled back, a wicked smile curling at his lips, his gaze dark and hungry as he climbed over you, positioning himself between your legs.

“Now that you’re warmed up,” he said, his voice thick with desire, “let’s see how well you can take me.”

As the last ripples of your orgasm faded, you were left breathless and trembling, the heat still coursing through your veins. But Azriel wasn’t finished. He leaned back, a wicked smile curling at his lips, his gaze dark and hungry as he slowly began to undress.

First, he kicked off his shoes, the soft thud echoing in the silence. You couldn’t help but drink in the sight of him as he moved, the muscles in his legs shifting beneath the fabric of his pants. He took care in unbuttoning his dress shirt, each click of the buttons amplifying the anticipation thrumming in the air.

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes widening as you took in the sight of him. His chest was sculpted, muscles taut and defined, each movement revealing the intricate patterns of tattoos that snaked over his shoulders and down his arms. The sharp angles of his physique made you ache with want, your gaze lingering on the way the light danced across his skin.

As he peeled away the shirt and tossed it aside, he moved to his pants, unzipping them with a languid grace. The fabric slipped down his hips, revealing the strong contours of his thighs. You felt your pulse quicken, heart racing as your eyes finally landed on the impressive sight of him, bare and completely unrestrained. His sheer size stole your breath, a wave of longing washing over you as you imagined how he would fill you.

You felt a rush of excitement and fear as he climbed over you and aligned himself, the heat radiating between your bodies igniting your skin.

With a low growl, Azriel pressed forward, pushing the tip of himself into you, already stretching you more than you were used to. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, pleasure mixing with discomfort as your body struggled to accommodate him. He pulled back slightly, teasing you, as if savoring the tension.

“Easy now,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, “you’ll get used to it.” With each slow push, he sank deeper, relentless and rough, forcing you to adjust to his size, leaving you gasping and craving more. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of ecstasy and pain as he filled you, inch by agonizing inch.

Finally, with a deep, powerful thrust, he bottomed out, burying himself fully inside you. The stretch was almost unbearable, a burning sensation that made you feel both full and utterly consumed. Your body clenched around him instinctively, desperate to accommodate the fullness he brought.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice low and thick with satisfaction, “taking me like a good girl.” His hips rolled, pressing deeper, and you moaned involuntarily, the mixture of pleasure and pain making your head spin. “I knew you’d love this,” he continued, eyes glinting with a wicked delight. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

As he began to thrust, each movement was deliberate, the rhythm punishing. “You feel so good wrapped around me,” he growled, his hands gripping your hips, anchoring you in place. He punctuated his words with another deep thrust, your body responding to his dominance, the sensation igniting a fire deep within you. “Now tell me how much you love it,” he demanded, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned closer, his voice dripping with authority. “Say it, angel. Tell me you’re mine.”

As he filled you completely, your body began to adjust, each thrust pushing you further into a haze of pleasure. You met his gaze, the defiance in your eyes having burnt out long ago. “I’m—I’m yours,” you replied breathlessly. 

Azriel thrust harder, forcing a moan from you. “You’ll learn to love this, to love being mine.” His voice dripped with arrogance, and you hated how much you wanted to agree. “See how easy this is? Just give in and let me take care of you.”

With each thrust, he buried himself deeper, filling you to the hilt, and your body began to instinctively arch against him, craving every rough, delicious inch. “You feel that?” he taunted, his voice thick with pleasure. “You were made for me, for this. You’ll come to crave it, just as I do.”

“Azriel…” you gasped, overwhelmed by the sensations flooding your body. He pulled back, almost all the way out, just to plunge back in, the force of him making your breath hitch.

Azriel's voice dropped to a low growl as he continued to thrust into you, each movement powerful and precise. “You’re going to learn what it means to truly belong to someone, to be mine,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “Every inch of you will be devoted to me, and I’ll teach you how to crave my touch.”

“Please,” you breathed, desperate for more.

He chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through you. “You’ll see, angel. From now on, every moment of your life will revolve around my needs and desires. You’ll wake up thinking of me, and when you’re not with me, you’ll ache for me.” He thrust deeper, punctuating his words with each deliberate movement. “You’ll be begging for my attention, begging for me to touch you, and you’ll learn to love every second of it.”

You could feel the heat pooling within you, the way his words curled around your mind, mixing with the sensations he was drawing out of you. “But what if I don’t?” you challenged, your voice trembling with a mix of defiance and need.

His smirk widened, eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity. “Oh, you will. If you don’t learn to beg for what you want, I'll make sure you experience pain in ways you can’t imagine. Trust me,” he added, leaning in closer, his breath hot against your ear, “if you refuse to submit, I’ll make you wish you had. It won’t take long for you to want to please me.”

Your eyes widened at the thought, but you couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through you at his words. “I do want to please you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, filled with an eagerness you couldn’t hide.

“Good girl,” he praised, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “But first, you need to say it. Say you want me to take care of you.”

“I want you to take care of me,” you murmured after a beat, the confession spilling from your lips as your body responded eagerly to his dominance.

“Now thank me for saving you. Thank me for rescuing you from that sad, miserable life you were living,” he said, his breath hot against your skin as he continued to thrust into you, his hair tousled and damp, clinging to his forehead with sweat.

You swallowed hard, the words heavy on your tongue. “Thank you for saving me, Azriel. Thank you for making my life worth living.” 

“See? It’s not so hard to submit, is it?” he taunted, thrusting deeper once more, making you curse as he filled you completely. “You’re going to love every moment, and I’ll make sure you never forget who you belong to.” He looped a finger around the necklace he bought you, eyeing you as though you were a prized possession.

He continued to thrust into you, each movement rhythmic and relentless, his hands gripping your hips, holding you firmly in place. “You’ll learn to follow my rules, to understand your place,” he said, his voice a seductive murmur. “And in return, I’ll give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of. All you have to do is let go.”

“Let go,” you echoed, the words hanging between you, filled with promise and danger.

“That’s right,” he urged, pulling your legs over his shoulders in a mating press as his thrusts grew more powerful. His gaze locked onto yours, daring you to surrender completely. “Let go, angel. Give yourself to me. Show me how much you crave this.”

Your body trembled with a surge of need as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “I need you, Azriel,” you whispered, your voice raw with desire. You rocked your hips up to meet his thrusts, matching his rhythm, desperate to take him deeper. Your nails dug into his shoulders, urging him on. “Fill me, Azriel. Make me yours. I want to feel you everywhere,” you begged, the intensity of your words surprising you.

You kissed him fiercely, your lips crashing against his, tasting the salt of his sweat. Your tongue darted out, meeting his, and you moaned into his mouth, the vibrations traveling through both of you. Your legs tightened around his waist, holding him in place as you moved together, the friction building into an unbearable heat. “I’m yours,” you panted, your voice breaking with the weight of your admission. “Only yours.”

His eyes darkened with satisfaction, and he growled in approval, his movements growing even more demanding. “That’s it, angel. Show me how much you need this. Show me how much you need me,” he commanded, his voice thick with lust.

Your head fell back against the table as you surrendered completely, giving yourself over to the waves of pleasure crashing through you. “I need you, Azriel. I need you so much,” you cried out, your body shuddering as you reached your peak, every nerve ending on fire.

As you came apart beneath him, you clung to him desperately. He continued to thrust, his pace relentless and punishing. “I’m going to make this pretty pussy mine,” he growled, his voice low and feral. “Gonna pound you whenever I want, and you’re going to fucking beg me not to stop.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the raw dominance in his tone sending shivers down your spine. “Please, Azriel,” you whimpered, your body arching into him.

He smirked, his eyes blazing with possessive fire. “You’re going to learn to love every second of it, to crave it,” he said, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his control slipping. “Every second of the day. You’ll be begging for my attention, begging for me to fuck you, and I’ll make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

With one final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his release hitting hard as he groaned your name. “You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, his breath hot and ragged. “Always.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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[willowser]

ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴ ᴀʟʟ ғᴏᴜʀs. werewolf kiri au.

you wake up under a mountain of furs.

light comes flickering from the hearth and, warm and welcoming as it is—you've no idea where you are.

you don't recognize the inside of the cabin; it's certainly not yours, nor is its layout that of any you’ve seen in the village. it's rather plain, with a singular window and table and chair and small fireplace, empty enough that you wonder how anyone could live comfortably with so little.

outside, the winter storm rages on, and there's a howl that cuts through the air that strikes bone-deep.

all at once your memories come back to you: dragged through town with bound hands and ankles, in only a thin night dress, screaming with all your might as the physician that delivered you into this world tied you to an old pine, along with the priest and the man that sold you blueberries in the spring.

people you knew and loved. had trusted.

the memories become hazy after a while, darkening with the night that crept in. you remember your body losing its feeling, but not its fear. you remember the violence of the storm, breaking trees and branches and uprooting the forest floor. you remember the horrible and hulking shape of something rising in the moonlight.

the door shoves open then, with enough force to send you scurrying back into the corner of the room. the blizzard tries to rush inside, but a man stands in its way, leaning back against the wood to keep the wind and snow out where it belongs. he's—big, as tall as the frame and just as wide, with thick hair that he's tied back, messy and low.

he's rosy in his cheeks and on the tip of his nose, as bright as the eyes that snap to you the moment you dare to breathe.

he doesn't say anything, at first. the bag of firewood he sets at his feet settles as he turns to you in interest, eyebrows raised. the clothes he's wearing look—old and worn, certainly not suitable for the storm roaring outside, with the holes and tears in the fabric. the boots he has on, however, seem heavy, have his steps echoing when he moves further into the room.

you pull your knees up to your chest and try to shrink away; beneath your thin dress, your skin has pebbled up, reminding you of just how vulnerable you still are.

your fear translates; the man stops on the other side of the little table, breathing in deeply before raising his hands up in what reads as surrender.

"hello," he finally says, and when you don't respond, he places a thick hand to his dark-haired chest and introduces himself as, "eijirou."

he nods emphatically and then repeats himself, as if to reinforce the name. you only grant him a small nod in return—and he smiles. it's wide, stretching across his face, and friendly, authentic enough that you question whether you're as damned as you thought, or perhaps saved.

how did you even get here? the question finally thaws out from the recesses of your brain and you take another look around the room as if the answer lies between the wood or nestled into the furs. this place looks too hand-crafted, you realize, all of it—and the man before you looks like he could move mountains, if he wanted to.

the chains that had bound you were iron-strong and didn't once budge in all your thrashing, before things went dark—but now you are inside by a well-maintained fire, warm and free, and all that remains of your ill fate are the indentions worn into your wrists.

he's still staring at you, the man. eijirou. he's not moved any closer, either, and when you meet his curious gaze, his lips twist and his eyes narrow. a thoughtful noise comes out of his mouth, like he's thinking of what to say or how to say it, and you're reminded that you don't recognize where you are, nor do you recognize him in the slightest.

big as he is, you don't think he could have carried you too far in a snowstorm such as the one still raging outside; are you still somewhere deep in the forest? in a cabin at the heart of the wood? saved by a man that somehow survives with so little out in the middle of nowhere?

"eijirou," you test the name on your lips and he perks up at the sound, attention snapping back to you instantly. you don't know if it's winter seeping through the floor, or if it's in the way that he watches you, that makes you shiver.

finally, he asks, "cold?" and when you nod, he slowly makes his way over to you, carefully, as if approaching a deer ready to run.

—and then he sheds his shirt with a quick shrug and holds it out to you.

you should want to look away, for decency sake, but you're—stunned by it, by him. there's a litany of scars that paint him in odd and worrisome places, but he stands tall and strong before you, unbothered by his own state. unbothered by the eyes that run over the expanse of his bare shoulders, the dark, thick trail of hair running down from his belly button, the ripples of muscle his loose shirt did well to hide.

you take it from him carefully and it's so warm, almost hot, that you press it to your face immediately to chase away the chatter of your jaw. the material itself, however ragged, is big enough to drape over your curled form like a blanket, and so you do just that. it carries the earthy smell of the woods, deeply woven into the fabric; pine and musk and something smoky.

with your cheek still pressed to his shirt, you look up to thank him, at last, but the words still in your throat at the minute changes of his face: still smiling, though sharper now, somehow, and his eyes are still wide with that keen, rapt interest—but the crimson to them has set like the sun and they've grown just as dark as the night outside.

[novaursa]

The Golden Court (wayward daughter)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: Adult themes will progress more and more as chapters go on. This fic is pure filth and I make no apologies for it. You have been warned.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (nothing drastic yet, but it will be later)

- Teaser chapter, if you wanna know the gist of this story: the golden court - sneak peek

- Next part: what we are

- Tag(s): if you want to be tagged in future chapters, let me know.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep thrummed with music and revelry, the air heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. Laughter echoed off the high vaulted ceilings as lords and ladies twirled in intricate dances beneath the flickering glow of a thousand candles. The wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon was a grand affair, a union meant to secure the loyalty of two powerful houses. Yet, amidst the splendor, a storm loomed on the horizon, one that would silence the hall and shift the course of the evening.

You had not set foot in King’s Landing for years. The weight of the Red Keep's walls and the accusing stares of the court had been left behind when your father, Daemon, whisked you away into self-imposed exile. He had been your shield, your guide, and, in some ways, your accomplice. You had grown into a woman in the shadows of your dragon, Haelle, and in the freedom of distant skies. But now, with your uncle Viserys perched on the Iron Throne and whispers of ambition and discontent filling the realm, Daemon had decided it was time to return. And, as always, you were by his side.

The massive doors of the Great Hall creaked open with a groan, the sound cutting through the din like a blade. Heads turned as two figures strode through the entryway. Daemon, clad in black and red, exuded his usual air of defiance. But it was the figure at his side that drew the sharp intake of breath from the gathered lords and ladies.

You stepped into the hall, every inch the Targaryen princess. Your gown, a masterpiece of dark crimson silk and black Valyrian lace, shimmered like dragonfire with every step. The neckline dipped daringly low, exposing the delicate curve of your collarbone, where a necklace of Valyrian steel and rubies rested. Your hair, the pale silver of your Valyrian heritage, cascaded down your back in intricate braids intertwined with thin chains of gold. But it was your face, striking and ethereal, that silenced the room. You had been beautiful as a child, but now, as a woman grown, you were devastating.

Beside you, Daemon smirked, clearly relishing the stunned silence. He guided you toward the royal table, where Viserys sat at its center, flanked by Alicent in her green gown and Rhaenyra in the traditional white and red of House Targaryen. Laenor Velaryon sat stiffly beside his bride, his expression unreadable.

“Daemon,” Viserys said, his voice tight with barely concealed irritation. “You were not invited.”

“Brother,” Daemon replied smoothly, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Surely you wouldn’t deny me the chance to celebrate my dear niece’s wedding?”

Viserys’s gaze shifted to you, and his expression softened, though it remained cautious. “And you brought… her.”

“I did.” Daemon’s hand rested lightly on your arm. “Surely you remember my daughter, your niece. Y/N, who has grown into quite the lady.”

You curtsied gracefully, your eyes locking with Viserys’s. “Your Grace.”

The king’s mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering between you and Daemon. Rhaenyra, however, looked less composed. Her gaze lingered on you, her cousin and near-contemporary, with an emotion that was difficult to read—relief, perhaps, or jealousy.

“Where have you been?” Rhaenyra finally asked, her voice breaking the silance. “You disappeared.”

You smiled faintly, a touch of mystery in your expression. “With my father. He thought it best for us to see the world beyond the confines of court.”

“Court missed you,” Rhaenyra said, though her tone suggested otherwise.

Viserys cleared his throat, his kingly composure returning. “You are family,” he said, gesturing to the empty chairs near the high table. “Sit. Join us.”

Daemon inclined his head in mock gratitude, his smile sharpening. “Your hospitality knows no bounds, brother.”

The two of you ascended the dais and took your seats, the eyes of the hall following your every movement. As you sat, the murmurs began anew, hushed whispers rippling through the crowd like wildfire.

“Is that truly Daemon’s daughter?”

“By the gods, she’s as beautiful as a queen.”

“What does this mean? Why has Daemon returned now?”

The conversation at the royal table was strained at first. Alicent barely looked at you, her fingers tightening around the goblet in her hand. Laenor, though polite, seemed unsure of how to address you, his glances brief and cautious. Rhaenyra, meanwhile, seemed torn between curiosity and wariness. Only Viserys seemed genuinely pleased to see you, though his concern for Daemon’s motives was evident in the tightness around his eyes.

“Your dragon,” Viserys asked at one point, leaning forward slightly. “Haelle, wasn’t it? The Nightmare Queen, they call her. How is she?”

“She is well,” you replied. “We flew in this morning.”

The statement hung in the air, a quiet reminder of the power you wielded. Dragons were more than mere beasts; they were weapons, symbols of House Targaryen’s dominion. And Haelle, with her black-and-gold scales and fiery temper, was a creature of legend.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” Viserys said finally, his tone softer. “You’ve been gone too long.”

You inclined your head. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Daemon smirked at your politeness but said nothing, letting the silence fill the space where a more cutting comment might have fallen. The anxiety remained, an undercurrent beneath the music and laughter that resumed in the hall. Yet, as you sipped your wine and observed the court with an air of detachment, you knew one thing for certain.

You were back. And the realm would never be the same.

The Lannister table, seated to the right of the royal dais, was an island of golden splendor amidst the sea of colors in the Great Hall. Goblets of Arbor wine gleamed in the candlelight, and plates piled with delicacies were spread before the lions of Casterly Rock. Yet the chatter at the table had grown subdued, as the shock of Prince Daemon and his daughter’s entrance rippled through the hall. All eyes had turned toward the royal table at the dramatic reappearance, and among the Lannisters, curiosity was no less keen.

Jason Lannister leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet as he studied the Targaryen princess from afar. His green eyes lingered on her, taking in her striking features and the way she carried herself with an effortless grace. She had a presence that filled the hall, one that seemed to command attention without effort. It was clear she was her father’s daughter, but there was a softer quality to her—a beauty both ethereal and dangerous. A dragon in a girl's skin, Jason thought.

Beside him, Tyland Lannister had resumed eating, though his movements were measured and deliberate, his expression betraying his thoughts. Unlike Jason, who brimmed with confidence, Tyland’s demeanor carried a wariness, as though anticipating the trouble that always seemed to follow Daemon Targaryen.

It was Lord Alton Lannister, their elder cousin, who broke the silence. “Well,” he said, lowering his cup and looking toward Tyland, “you’re on the Small Council. Surely you know—when was the last time the princess graced the court?”

Tyland paused, wiping his mouth with a silk cloth before answering. “Not since she was a child,” he replied. “I doubt she was older than ten or eleven when Daemon left.”

Alton let out a low whistle. “And now she returns, fully grown and radiant as the Dawn. The court must be in a frenzy.”

Jason smirked, setting down his goblet. “Frenzy is one word for it. Look at them—they’re still whispering about her. The Nightmare Queen, isn’t that what they call her dragon? A name like that has a way of capturing the imagination.”

“Names like that breed fear,” Tyland interjected, his tone clipped. “She is bonded with a dragon said to rival Caraxes in ferocity. The Nightmare Queen is no empty title.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You make her sound like a menace. She’s a young woman, not some beast.”

Tyland met his brother’s gaze evenly. “A young woman raised by Daemon Targaryen, no less. Don’t let her beauty fool you, Jason. She’s her father’s daughter through and through.”

Jason chuckled, leaning forward on the table. “And what’s wrong with that? I’ve always found Daemon… entertaining.”

“Entertaining until he decides he doesn’t like you,” Tyland said, his voice lowering slightly. “If you think you’ll charm her, be careful. You may find her less receptive than the ladies you’re used to.”

Jason’s smile widened, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Now, Tyland, when have you ever known me to back down from a chaellenge?”

Tyland sighed, setting down his fork. “I’m merely saying, tread lightly. The Targaryens are not like the women of the Westerlands. They play their own games, and they play them well.”

Jason didn’t respond immediately, his attention drawn back to the royal table. The princess sat beside Daemon, her posture regal and unyielding, her expression serene as though she were utterly unaffected by the stares and whispers. She sipped her wine with an almost deliberate grace, her eyes occasionally flicking to the crowd as if assessing the room. Even from this distance, Jason could feel the pull of her presence.

“I intend to offer my congratulations to Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor,” Jason said at last, adjusting the collar of his finely embroidered doublet. “And while I’m at it, I might take the opportunity to exchange a few words with her.”

Alton raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. “Brave of you, cousin. You’d risk the wrath of Daemon Targaryen for a chance to speak with his daughter?”

“Daemon isn’t the one I intend to speak to,” Jason replied smoothly. “Besides, if I let him intimidate me, I’d hardly be worthy of the name Lannister.”

Tyland shook his head, exasperation flickering in his eyes. “You never listen, do you?”

Jason shrugged, a confident smile playing on his lips. “You worry too much, brother. A lion knows when to strike.”

He rose from his seat, straightening his shoulders and smoothing his doublet. His golden hair caught the light as he prepared to make his way toward the royal dais, his movements deliberate and self-assured. Tyland watched him go, shaking his head once more but making no move to stop him. The rest of the Lannisters exchanged looks, some amused, others skeptical.

As Jason began his approach, the hall seemed to recover its rhythm, the music resuming its lively pace and the hum of conversation rising once more. Yet amidst the revelry, the presence of the Targaryen princess remained a focal point, her return an unspoken reminder of the power and danger that lurked beneath the surface of this seemingly joyous occasion.

And Jason Lannister, ever the bold lion, was about to step into the dragon’s den.

The hum of the hall seemed to fade into the background as Jason Lannister made his way toward the royal table. His steps were measured, his shoulders squared, and his golden lion-emblazoned doublet shone in the candlelight, catching more than a few admiring glances from nearby ladies. But Jason’s focus was singular. His eyes fixed briefly on Rhaenyra and Laenor, seated in their places of honor, before flickering to you, the Targaryen princess whose presence had thrown the entire hall into a hush mere moments ago.

As he approached, Daemon’s gaze caught him first, those dark violet eyes narrowing slightly, as if already weary of the encounter. But Jason was not easily cowed, and with a disarming smile, he dipped into a bow before the royal table, addressing the newlyweds first.

“Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Laenor,” he began, his tone warm and practiced. “Allow me to extend my sincerest congratulations on this joyous occasion. House Lannister is honored to celebrate your union, which I’m certain will only strengthen the realm.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was polite, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Lord Jason, your presence here is noted,” she replied, her tone cool but courteous.

Laenor, for his part, seemed distracted, his gaze darting to you and Daemon before quickly returning to his goblet. He managed a half-hearted, “Thank you, my lord.”

Jason’s smile didn’t falter as he straightened, though his true intent was clear as his gaze shifted toward you. His smile softened, taking on a charm that had won him many admirers in court. “And Princess Y/N,” he said, inclining his head toward you. “It is a rare and welcome honor to see you back at court. Your presence graces this hall.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, you said nothing. The weight of your gaze was like the lingering heat of dragonfire—intense, unyielding, and wholly unnerving. Jason felt a flicker of unease, but he quickly masked it, maintaining his confident demeanor.

“It has been some time, Lord Jason,” you replied at last, your voice smooth and measured. “I suppose much has changed since my departure.”

Jason chuckled, sensing an opportunity to engage you. “Indeed, much has changed,” he agreed, his tone light. “Though I must say, some things remain constant—such as the splendor of House Targaryen. You remind us all of its magnificence.”

Your lips curved into a faint smile, though it was hard to tell whether it was amusement or something else entirely. “You flatter me, my lord.”

Jason took the smile as encouragement and pressed on. “It is not flattery, my princess, but truth,” he said smoothly, leaning in slightly as if to draw you into a more intimate exchange. “You are the very image of Valyrian grace. I can see why the court is so captivated by you.”

Before he could say more, Daemon shifted in his seat, the subtle movement enough to remind Jason of the dragon that hovered nearby. Jason glanced at the prince briefly but found Daemon watching him with a faint smirk, as if curious to see how far he would go.

Jason returned his focus to you, determined not to let Daemon’s presence unnerve him. “I imagine the world beyond King’s Landing must have been quite the adventure,” he said, his voice turning conversational. “I wonder if you ever found anything to rival the beauty of our court.”

You tilted your head slightly, your expression thoughtful. “I have seen many wonders, my lord,” you replied, your tone almost wistful. “The ancient cities of Essos, the hidden isles of the Summer Sea… and, of course, the freedom of the skies atop Haelle. But beauty, I have found, is subjective. What some call magnificent, others might see as… fleeting.”

Jason blinked, unsure whether to take the comment as a compliment or an insult. Still, he pressed on, determined to regain control of the conversation. “Fleeting or not, beauty is worth cherishing while it lasts. And if I may be so bold, Princess, your presence here tonight is a reminder of that very truth.”

The faint smile on your lips grew ever so slightly, and for a moment, Jason thought he had succeeded in charming you. But then you spoke, your tone laced with an edge so subtle it took him a moment to catch it.

“Such eloquence, Lord Jason,” you said softly, your eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “One might almost think you rehearsed it.”

Jason’s confident smile faltered for the briefest moment. The barb was so delicately delivered that it took a beat for him to fully grasp it. Around you, the conversation at the royal table continued as if nothing had happened, but Jason felt the sting keenly, though he hid it well.

Recovering quickly, he gave a polite laugh. “Perhaps I’ve simply had the good fortune to be inspired,” he countered, bowing his head slightly. “In any case, I hope to continue our conversation another time, Princess. Perhaps under less… formal circumstances.”

You inclined your head, your smile unwavering. “We shall see, my lord.”

Jason lingered for a moment longer before stepping back and offering another bow to the table. As he turned to leave, he felt the weight of your gaze on him, though whether it was one of amusement or dismissal, he couldn’t quite tell. Behind him, Tyland’s words echoed faintly in his mind, a warning he had been too proud to heed. For all his charm and confidence, he realized, you were not a woman to be easily swayed—or easily fooled.

Jason Lannister returned to his seat at the Lannister table, his movements brisk and his expression carefully neutral. He lowered himself into his chair with the practiced ease of someone who refused to show any hint of disappointment, even if the exchange had not gone entirely as planned. He reached for his goblet, taking a measured sip of Arbor gold, before setting it down with a faint clink against the polished wood.

Tyland, who had been watching the royal table with narrowed eyes, wasted no time. “That didn’t look promising,” he remarked, his tone as dry as the wine in his own goblet. He cut a piece of venison and brought it to his lips, his movements unhurried but precise, as if his focus wasn’t entirely on his meal.

Jason shot his younger brother a sidelong glance, leaning back in his chair. “You always were a pessimist, Tyland. I thought you’d have more faith in me.”

Tyland smirked faintly, shaking his head. “It’s not a matter of faith, Jason. It’s a matter of practicality. You shouldn’t be doing this—not now.”

“And why not?” Jason chaellenged, his voice low enough to avoid carrying beyond their table. He gestured toward the royal dais with his goblet. “She’s a princess of the blood, a rare beauty, and clearly one of the most captivating women in the hall. Why shouldn’t I take the opportunity?”

Tyland set down his knife and fork, folding his hands neatly in front of him as he turned his scholding gaze on his older twin. “Because you’re negotiating with Lord Westerling for the hand of his daughter. Or have you conveniently forgotten that? Word reaches far and fast in court, Jason. You wouldn’t want him to think you’re… distracted.”

Jason scoffed, his lips curling into a grin that bordered on arrogant. “Distracted? Lord Westerling would count himself lucky to have me as a son-in-law, and he knows it. Besides, it’s just conversation. I’ve done nothing improper.”

“Yet,” Tyland countered, his tone pointed. “But Daemon Targaryen doesn’t need a reason to take offense, and the princess—”

Jason cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Daemon can posture all he likes. He doesn’t intimidate me. As for the princess…” He trailed off, glancing toward the royal table where you sat beside your father, your expression calm but unreadable. “She’s intriguing, Tyland. You don’t meet women like her every day.”

Tyland didn’t respond immediately. His gaze followed his brother’s, settling on you for a moment too long before he quickly looked away. He reached for his goblet, swirling the wine absently as he spoke. “She’s intriguing, yes. She’s also dangerous. You saw how she handled your charm—it didn’t take much for her to put you in your place.”

Jason chuckled, though there was a slight edge to it. “She’s sharp, I’ll give her that. But that only makes the game more interesting.”

Tyland sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t a game, Jason. You’re playing with fire, and I don’t just mean Daemon. She’s not some simpering Westerlands maiden who’ll swoon over your pretty words. You’ll get burned.”

Jason’s grin widened. “Maybe I like the heat.”

Alton, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up, his tone amused. “It’s rare to see you so persistent, Jason. Most women are won over before you’ve even said a word. But the princess… she’s a different breed.”

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s what makes her worth pursuing.”

Tyland frowned, his gaze flickering to the royal table once more despite himself. He couldn’t help but study you—the way the candlelight caught the silver in your hair, the way you held yourself with an air of quiet confidence that seemed to make the very air around you heavier. There was something magnetic about you, something that made it hard to look away.

“And you?” Jason asked suddenly, catching Tyland off guard. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been stealing glances at her too?”

Tyland’s jaw tightened, and he straightened in his seat. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jason smirked, his expression turning teasing. “Oh, come now, Tyland. You’re usually so composed, but I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Tyland didn’t respond, instead lifting his goblet to his lips to avoid further comment. Jason’s grin only grew, pleased to have struck a nerve.

“You know,” Jason continued, his tone light but laced with mischief, “if I weren’t careful, I’d say you’re as captivated as I am.”

Tyland set his goblet down with a touch more force than necessary, fixing his brother with a stern look. “I’m not captivated. I’m cautious. Someone has to be.”

Jason laughed, a rich, deep sound that carried a note of triumph. “Well, cautious or not, I’ll take my chances. Life’s too short to ignore an opportunity like this.”

Tyland shook his head, but his gaze flickered toward you one last time, lingering just long enough to betray his thoughts. Whether he would admit it or not, Jason wasn’t the only one drawn to the princess at the royal table. But unlike Jason, Tyland understood the risks—and he doubted his brother had the skill or patience to navigate the storm you represented.

The music in the Great Hall swelled, the first notes of a lively melody filling the space as dancers took to the floor. The tension that had lingered after your and Daemon’s arrival was beginning to dissipate, drowned in wine and merriment. Yet, as laughter and conversation filled the air, your mind remained focused, your senses attuned to the atmosphere around you.

Seated beside your father, you swirled the deep red wine in your goblet, observing the court with the detached amusement that Daemon had taught you well. The weight of curious and lingering stares had not diminished. You had spent years away from court, but here, in the heart of the Red Keep, your absence had only made you more of a mystery—one that lords and ladies alike sought to unravel.

Daemon leaned slightly toward you, his voice low and laced with amusement. “Well, that was a performance.”

You took a measured sip of your wine before glancing at him. “You expected anything less?”

His smirk deepened. “From you? Never.” He lifted his goblet in a silent toast. “But I must say, you handle lions well. I think Jason Lannister thought he had you ensnared.”

A small smile played at your lips as you turned your gaze to the Lannister table, where Jason had returned to his seat, wearing his usual mask of confidence—though you had seen the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes when he realized your words had been a well-placed barb. “He thinks himself a master at the game,” you mused. “But he underestimates his opponent.”

Daemon chuckled, clearly pleased. “Good. You should keep them all on their toes. Let them wonder where they stand with you.” He glanced toward the royal table, where Viserys sat observing the scene with an expression of quiet thoughtfulness. “And speaking of those who wonder…”

You turned just as Viserys shifted toward you, setting aside his goblet and offering a warm, albeit cautious, smile. “Y/N,” he said, his voice rich with something akin to relief. “I must say, it gladdens me to see you here again. It has been far too long.”

You inclined your head respectfully. “It has, Uncle.”

He studied you for a moment, as if searching for traces of the girl he once knew beneath the composed woman before him. “I had often wondered how you fared,” he continued. “I sent letters, you know.”

You did know. They had arrived in the Free Cities, where you and Daemon had spent your exile, yet your father had always intercepted them before they reached you. Not out of cruelty, but because he believed that no good would come from lingering attachments to the court you had left behind.

“I never received them,” you said, not unkindly.

Viserys’s expression darkened slightly, his gaze flickering toward Daemon, who merely smirked and took another sip of wine. The animosity between the brothers was ever-present, a wound that had never truly healed.

“I see,” Viserys murmured, though it was clear he didn’t. He exhaled slowly before offering a gentler smile. “I trust you have been well, then? Daemon’s company… agrees with you?”

You glanced at your father, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “I have seen the world beyond these walls,” you replied. “Traveled farther than most lords could dream. It has been… enlightening.”

Viserys nodded, though something in his eyes hinted at regret. “Still, you are family,” he said after a moment. “No matter the distance, that will not change.”

You offered him a small smile, and for now, the conversation seemed to settle. The king looked relieved that you had not outright rejected his attempts at connection. But you knew this was only the beginning. You had returned, and there would be more conversations, more questions, more attempts to weave you back into the court’s web.

The music swelled, and the first couples began to take to the floor, the polished marble reflecting the flickering candlelight. The dance was one of tradition, one expected at any grand feast—a display of grace, skill, and status. You watched as Rhaenyra and Laenor stepped forward first, the newlyweds taking their place at the center as the hall erupted in applause.

Daemon leaned toward you again, voice tinged with amusement. “I wonder how long before someone dares ask you to dance.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, resting your chin against your knuckles as you observed the growing number of couples joining the dance. “I imagine they are debating whether it’s worth the risk.”

Daemon grinned. “Good. Keep them guessing.”

From across the hall, you caught sight of Jason Lannister rising from his seat, his movements deliberate. Tyland, still seated beside him, muttered something that made Jason roll his eyes before shaking off his brother’s words and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.

You already knew his intention before he even turned toward the royal table.

Daemon noticed as well, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “And the first lion dares to approach the dragon once more.” He tilted his goblet toward you. “Shall we see how long he lasts this time?”

You merely smiled, watching as Jason made his way through the crowd with the easy confidence of a man who had never known rejection. The game had begun, and you intended to play it well.

Lords and ladies subtly shifted in their seats, eyes drawn toward him—some with curiosity, others with mild surprise. It was one thing to exchange words over wine, but to boldly approach the royal table twice in one evening was a statement.

Daemon had already noticed, of course. He exhaled a small chuckle, sipping at his wine as though thoroughly entertained. “Persistent,” he murmured. “I’ll give him that.”

Jason reached the royal table and bowed slightly, his golden hair gleaming under the candlelight. His lion-embroidered doublet fit perfectly over his broad frame, the confidence in his stance unmistakable. But there was something in his gaze as he met yours—not just admiration, but amusement, perhaps even chaellenge.

“Princess Y/N,” he greeted smoothly, his tone warm and inviting. “I find myself drawn back to your company so soon. I hope you will forgive my lack of restraint.”

Your lips curled in a faint smirk. “Is restraint something you struggle with, my lord?”

Jason chuckled. “On occasion. Especially when it comes to remarkable company.” He straightened slightly, offering his hand. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

There it was. The unspoken question that had lingered in the air, the moment that so many lords hesitated to seize for fear of stepping too close to the fire.

You regarded him for a moment, tilting your head slightly. “Are you a misogynist, Lord Jason?”

There was a brief flicker of confusion before Jason laughed, rich and unbothered. “Not in the slightest, princess. Why do you ask?”

You leaned back in your chair, amusement gleaming in your violet eyes. “Because I cannot think of another reason why a man negotiating a betrothal would be so bold as to pursue another woman so publicly. Either you do not value the girl you are meant to wed, or you do not value women at all.”

A ripple of amusement passed through the royal table—Daemon smirked into his goblet, while Alicent, who had been quietly observing, arched an intrigued brow. Viserys, for his part, let out a slow sigh, though he did not intervene.

Jason, to his credit, did not flinch. Instead, his green eyes gleamed with something sharper, something entertained rather than insulted. “Or, princess,” he countered, “perhaps I simply value the things that are rarest.” His hand remained outstretched, unwavering. “And you are the rarest woman in this hall.”

Daemon’s smirk faded slightly, his fingers tapping against his goblet. His gaze flickered to Jason’s outstretched hand before landing on you.

“Careful, Lannister,” he drawled, the sharp edge in his tone unmistakable. “You might think yourself a lion, but there are creatures far deadlier than you in this hall.”

Jason turned his head, locking eyes with Daemon. And for the first time that evening, there was no humor in his expression. “I am well aware of the dangers, my prince,” he replied smoothly. “But I do not fear them.”

A breath of silence passed between them. It was brief, but it carried weight. Jason had made his move, and Daemon was weighing whether to let him take the step forward or crush him where he stood.

You watched them both, feeling the tension coiling in the space between them. Then, with deliberate grace, you reached forward and placed your fingers lightly in Jason’s palm. His grip was firm yet careful as he helped you to your feet.

Daemon’s eyes darkened slightly, but he said nothing. Instead, he lifted his goblet again and took a slow sip, though you could feel the unspoken warning in the way he watched Jason.

As the music swelled, Jason turned to you, amusement flickering back across his features. “I must say, princess,” he murmured, guiding you toward the dance floor, “you do know how to make a man work for his victories.”

You smirked, allowing yourself to be led. “Then tell me, Lord Jason,” you mused, “what makes you think this is a victory?”

His chuckle was soft but confident. “Because you’re dancing with me.”

And with that, the two of you stepped onto the floor, the world around you watching as a lion and a dragon met in a game of fire and gold.

Tyland Lannister sat back in his chair, watching with a carefully neutral expression as Jason led you onto the dance floor. The golden embroidery of his brother’s doublet caught the flickering candlelight, gleaming as he moved with a lion’s confidence, his hand resting firmly on your waist. You, however, were more difficult to read. Though you followed Jason’s lead with practiced ease, your expression remained poised, your violet eyes unreadable.

A soft scoff came from his left. “Bold of him,” muttered Ser Stafford Lannister, one of their cousins, his voice laced with amusement as he sipped at his wine. “Even bolder of her.”

Lord Alton Lannister, seated across from them, chuckled under his breath. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Jason is trying to court her right in front of the entire court.” He swirled his goblet, his gaze flickering between the dancers and Tyland. “Should we expect a royal announcement soon, Tyland? Perhaps to a princess of Valyrian blood?”

Tyland exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the table. “If that were Jason’s goal, he should have chosen a safer conquest,” he remarked dryly. “Daemon Targaryen is not a man who takes kindly to men sniffing around his blood.”

Ser Stafford snorted. “Daemon doesn’t take kindly to anyone. And yet Jason dances with his daughter without a sword between them. That must count for something.”

Tyland’s gaze flickered back to the dance floor. Daemon was watching from the royal dais, his fingers tapping against the stem of his goblet. The smirk on his face did little to hide the sharp edge beneath it. He was letting Jason dance with you—but how much further he would let things go was another matter entirely.

“You can’t deny she’s a prize,” Alton continued, leaning forward with interest. “Look at her. She walks like a queen, and gods, that dragon of hers—Haelle. That alone makes her the most dangerous woman in the realm.”

“She is the daughter of Daemon Targaryen,” Tyland said, taking a measured sip of his wine. “Dangerous is in her blood.”

“Exactly,” Stafford said, shaking his head with a small grin. “And Jason, the reckless fool, is dancing straight into the fire.”

Tyland sighed, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied his brother’s movements. Jason was a master of charm, that much was undeniable, but you… you were different from the women who usually fell so easily under his spell. You held yourself with an authority that even Rhaenyra, the realm’s heir, could not match. There was something in the way you looked at Jason—not with shyness or demure flirtation, but with the same calculating assessment one might give a potential adversary.

And yet, you danced with him.

“She’s testing him,” Tyland murmured, more to himself than to the others.

Alton turned his head. “Hmm?”

“The princess,” Tyland elaborated. “She’s seeing how far Jason will go before he realizes she’s the one holding the leash.”

Stafford chuckled. “And what happens when he finds out?”

Tyland took another sip of his wine, watching as you leaned in slightly, murmuring something into Jason’s ear. Whatever you said made his brother grin, though there was a flicker of something else behind it—surprise, perhaps. Maybe even intrigue.

“He’ll keep playing,” Tyland said finally. “Because he won’t believe he can lose.”

Alton smirked. “And do you believe he will?”

Tyland’s gaze remained locked on the dance floor, watching as Jason twirled you, your silver hair catching the candlelight like molten starlight. The entire hall watched you—some entertained, others wary, but none indifferent.

The game had begun in earnest.

And Tyland, for all his caution, wasn’t sure if his brother realized just how dangerous his opponent truly was.

The dance between you and Jason was a slow, deliberate thing. Each step, each turn, each brush of his hand against your waist was performed under the scrutiny of the entire court. The Great Hall was alive with music, the lively melody filling the space, yet there was a tension beneath it—a quiet, anticipatory hum that carried through the crowd as they watched a lion and a dragon circle one another.

Jason led with confidence, his grip firm but not overpowering, his movements practiced and smooth. He was a man who knew his own appeal, who had likely charmed many a woman with his easy smile and golden tongue. But you were no wide-eyed lady from the Westerlands, no soft-spoken courtly maiden easily swayed by flattery and gallant words. You moved with effortless grace, matching his every step, a silent reminder that he did not lead this dance alone.

Jason leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he spoke. “I must admit, princess, you’ve caught me at a disadvantage.”

You arched a delicate brow, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. “How so, my lord?”

His lips curled into a smirk, his green eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You spoke of my betrothal negotiations as though you were seated at the table yourself. I find that rather intriguing.”

You allowed yourself a slow, knowing smile. “Only a fool would return here without learning everything about this den of vipers.”

Jason let out a short, surprised chuckle. “Vipers, is it? And here I thought you might still see this court as home.”

Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested in his grasp. “Home,” you mused, letting the word roll off your tongue as if testing its weight. “Such a delicate thing. So easily turned into a cage if one is not careful.”

Jason hummed in thought, his grip on your waist pressing slightly firmer as he spun you, your silken skirts fanning out in a swirl of deep crimson and black. The movement was effortless, controlled. He was good at this—dancing, charming, making women feel as though the world revolved around him.

But you knew better.

“I wonder,” Jason mused, his voice dropping just enough for only you to hear. “What else did you learn, princess? Do I have other secrets I should be concerned about?”

You tilted your head, watching him through half-lidded eyes as you allowed a playful smirk to grace your lips. “That depends. Should I be concerned about how many women’s fathers you have sat across from, promising them the honor of being Lady of Casterly Rock?”

Jason barked a quiet laugh, his grip on you tightening for a fraction of a second. “Now that is an unfair assessment,” he mused. “It is not as though I am in the habit of making such promises. Just one or two… perhaps three.”

You smirked, tilting your chin up as you let him guide you through another turn. “How noble.”

“I am nothing if not honorable,” Jason quipped, though his grin betrayed his amusement.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, the sharp gleam in your violet eyes never dimming. “And yet, despite all this honor, here you are,” you murmured, your voice as smooth as silk. “Dancing with a woman who is not among those negotiations.”

Jason’s smirk deepened. “I am an opportunist, my princess. It would be a crime to let such a moment slip away.”

You studied him for a long moment, the dance moving through another slow, deliberate step. His confidence was unwavering, his charm effortless. But there was something else beneath it—curiosity, perhaps even fascination. He had danced with many, of that you were certain, but you were something different.

You leaned in just enough that your lips nearly brushed his ear, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me, Lord Jason, do you dance with all the women you court so publicly?”

Jason’s breath hitched for the briefest moment before he recovered, his smirk sharpening. “Only the ones who make my blood run hot.”

Your smile was slow, calculated. “How fortunate, then, that I am not in the market for a husband.”

Jason chuckled, his fingers pressing against your lower back as he guided you into another turn. “A tragedy, truly,” he said smoothly, though his voice held a thread of something more—something bordering on chaellenge.

You did not respond immediately, letting the music fill the brief silence between you as the two of you moved in perfect sync. Around the hall, whispers floated between courtiers, lords and ladies speculating, watching, assessing.

You knew what they saw.

A lion circling a dragon.

Jason, ever the confident rogue, thought himself the predator in this game. But you could see it now, in the way his grip tightened just slightly when your body brushed against his, in the way his eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to intrigue. He had entered this dance thinking to seduce a princess.

Instead, he was the one being ensnared.

And gods, he was enjoying it.

As the final notes of the melody rang through the Great Hall, the dance drew to a close. Jason's grip remained firm for a moment longer than necessary, his fingers warm against your waist, as if reluctant to let you go. But you had already decided the game would not be his to control.

With a graceful step back, you withdrew from him, dipping your head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. “A fine dance, my lord,” you murmured, your voice smooth as silk, deliberately impersonal despite the intensity of your earlier exchange.

Jason smirked, sensing the shift in your demeanor. You were retreating before he could press his advantage further. Clever girl.

“The pleasure was mine, princess,” he replied, his tone laced with amusement.

You turned before he could say more, stepping away from the golden lion and back into the sea of onlookers. And that was when the court descended upon you.

Like vultures drawn to fresh meat, lords and ladies swarmed, eager to claim a moment of your attention. Some came with flowery compliments, others with thinly veiled curiosity, their eyes hungry for any morsel of information about you.

“It has been far too long since we have seen you at court, Princess Y/N.”

“You dance as if the gods themselves had shaped you for it.”

“Your father must be proud to have raised such a striking lady.”

Questions came next, wrapped in silk but cutting as Valyrian steel.

“What has brought you back to King’s Landing?”

“Do you intend to remain at court?”

“Has His Grace spoken of a match for you yet?”

The last question was the one whispered most eagerly, rippling through the gathered nobles like a slow-burning ember. Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? The game of marriage, alliances, and power. A dragon returned to the Red Keep was no small thing, and they all wanted to know where you would fall on the board.

You answered them with practiced ease, offering smiles without true promises, words with just enough weight to keep them wanting more. You had spent years away from court, but the game had not changed. If anything, you had learned it better than ever.

Jason Lannister strode back toward his seat, his smirk wider than ever. He could still feel the ghost of your touch, the way your body had moved with his. He poured himself another cup of Arbor gold, feeling the eyes of his kin on him.

“Well?” Alton Lannister asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Shall we expect a royal announcement soon, Jason? Or did she turn you into cinders?”

Jason let out a rich chuckle, lifting his goblet in a mock toast. “I’d say I handled myself rather well,” he said smugly, taking a deep sip of his wine. “She did not burn me, nor did she bite. That, dear cousins, is a victory.”

Ser Stafford scoffed, shaking his head. “A victory? You think one dance is a conquest?”

Jason leaned back, grinning. “One dance is the start of many things. She did not deny me, did she?” He gestured toward the court, where you stood amidst the nobles, captivating the entire hall. “They may all be circling her now, but I had her first.”

Tyland, who had remained quiet during Jason’s boasting, exhaled sharply before finally speaking. “You’re a fool.”

Jason turned his head, raising an amused brow. “Oh?”

Tyland’s expression was tight, his hands clasped before him as he leaned slightly forward. “Daemon Targaryen was watching you like a hawk the entire time. If you truly think he will let you dance with his daughter freely, you’re more arrogant than I thought.”

Jason chuckled, clearly unbothered. “Daemon is many things, but he is not blind. He knows what his daughter is—she’s a prize, and he knows men will seek her. What better man than a Lannister?”

Tyland’s jaw tightened. “You’re playing with fire, Jason.”

Jason merely smirked, swirling his wine. “I rather like the heat.”

Tyland let out a sharp breath, his patience thinning. “You do not understand what you’re dealing with,” he said, voice low and edged with warning. “She’s her father’s daughter through and through. If you think you can win her with empty flattery and boasts, you’ll find yourself sorely disappointed.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, studying his brother. Then, to Tyland’s irritation, his smirk only widened.

“Is that what’s bothering you, little brother?” Jason drawled, his tone mockingly thoughtful. “You’re jealous because you didn’t have the courage to approach her first?”

Tyland’s expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the goblet before he set it down with deliberate force. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Jason chuckled, leaning closer. “Oh, come now, Tyland. You watched her just as much as I did. And yet, I was the one who walked up to her. I was the one who danced with her while the whole court watched. You? You sat here and brooded like a scolded child.”

Tyland’s nostrils flared, but his face remained composed, his eyes cold as steel. “I am cautious,” he corrected. “Something you seem to lack entirely.”

Jason grinned. “And where has caution ever gotten you, brother? Sitting at council meetings while the rest of us play the real game?” He took another sip of his wine, shaking his head. “You’re always so careful, Tyland. So restrained. But tell me, how long will you sit on the sidelines while I enjoy the spoils?”

Tyland said nothing, but the look in his eyes was dark and unreadable.

Jason laughed, slapping his brother’s shoulder before leaning back in his chair. “Ah, don’t sulk. There are plenty of ladies in court who’d welcome your attention.” He tilted his head toward you, watching as you effortlessly navigated the growing circle of nobles vying for your favor. “But that one? She’s mine.”

Tyland didn’t respond. He simply reached for his wine and took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. But something in his grip, the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly, told Jason that his words had struck their mark.

And that, perhaps, his younger brother was not as unaffected as he wished to appear.

Meanwhile, during the dance

The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight, laughter, and the hum of conversation as the wedding feast carried on. At the center of it all, King Viserys I Targaryen reclined in his seat at the royal dais, watching the court dance and revel. The unease that had settled over their table when Daemon arrived with you had lessened now that you had stepped away, but a shadow still lingered over his features.

Beside him, Queen Alicent sat stiffly, her green gown immaculate, her lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze flickered between Viserys and the court below. On the dance floor, Rhaenyra and Laenor moved gracefully in tandem, their laughter light and effortless, as if for one night, at least, they could play the part expected of them.

Daemon, lounging in his seat across from them, swirled his wine lazily in his goblet, his expression unreadable. His presence was as unwelcome as ever, but he looked utterly unbothered by it, his smirk never quite fading.

Viserys exhaled slowly, setting down his goblet. The weight of the crown felt heavier than usual tonight. With you away from the table, he finally allowed himself to speak more freely.

“She looks just like her mother,” he muttered, almost to himself, as his eyes followed you amidst the courtiers.

Daemon’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment.

Viserys glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “I have not seen that face in years, and now… it’s as if Daena walks among us again.”

A muscle ticked in Daemon’s jaw. He brought his goblet to his lips, taking a slow sip before answering. “She is her own woman, brother.”

“Perhaps,” Viserys allowed, though his voice remained distant, thoughtful. His eyes traced your movements through the hall, watching as lords and ladies swarmed around you, eager for a moment of your time. “She was meant to be my daughter’s sister by marriage,” he mused. “A match for the son Aemma and I never had.”

Daemon scoffed softly, swirling his wine. “And if Aemma had birthed a boy, do you truly think he would have been worthy of her?”

Viserys turned sharply at that, his expression darkening. “That was the plan.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, smirking again. “Plans change.”

Alicent, silent until now, finally spoke, her voice measured but firm. “The princess has returned to court,” she said carefully. “Surely, Your Grace should consider her future—what will become of her?”

Viserys rubbed a hand over his brow. “She has just arrived, Alicent. Must we already speak of alliances?”

“Is it not prudent?” Alicent replied, ever the queen, ever practical. “She is a woman grown. And a princess of your blood. If her hand is left unclaimed, lords will fight for it soon enough.”

Daemon smirked, turning toward her with something dangerously close to amusement. “Is that concern I hear in your voice, good-sister?”

Alicent’s fingers tightened around her goblet. “I merely think the matter should not be ignored.”

Viserys sighed, watching you again as Jason Lannister spun you in a graceful turn. He could see the murmurs it was causing, the way the court whispered at the sight of a golden lion dancing with a dragon.

Daemon followed his gaze, his smirk deepening. “The Lannister seems eager,” he mused. “Would you have her as Lady of Casterly Rock, brother?”

Viserys frowned. “Jason Lannister is a braggart.”

“He is a powerful braggart,” Alicent interjected. “And wealthy.”

Daemon chuckled. “Oh, now this is amusing. Tell me, Alicent, do you think a Lannister would know how to handle her?” His voice was full of wicked amusement, and something else—something sharper.

Alicent stiffened at his tone. “It is not a matter of ‘handling’ her, Prince Daemon. It is a matter of what is best for the realm.”

Daemon scoffed, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “What’s best for the realm?” He gestured toward the dance floor, where Jason was clearly reveling in his own success, his confidence growing with every turn of the dance. “Tell me, then. Would you see her given to a man whose greatest skill is pouring gold over his problems?”

Viserys exhaled sharply. “Enough.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, watching his brother carefully. “Then tell me, brother—what is your plan for her?”

Viserys did not answer right away. His fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair, his gaze heavy as he studied you once more. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted at last. “But she is my niece, and she deserves a choice.”

Daemon’s smirk was slow, knowing. “A choice, you say? How generous.”

Alicent’s expression was carefully neutral, but there was something in her posture, the way she held herself, that spoke of unease.

“She is a woman grown,” she said again. “And no woman of noble birth has complete choice.”

Daemon leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table, his gaze locked on hers. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Alicent’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning. “Daemon, must you always—”

“I’m merely stating the truth, brother.” Daemon’s voice was light, but his eyes were cold as steel. “We all make sacrifices, do we not?”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Finally, Viserys exhaled, turning his attention fully back to the scene before them. The music was changing, signaling the end of the dance. Jason Lannister, looking immensely pleased with himself, was guiding you back toward the gathered nobility, where the next wave of suitors waited eagerly for their chance to approach.

The sight made Viserys feel… uneasy.

“She is the last of Daena’s blood,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She deserves more than to be a prize to be won.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, his smirk fading for the briefest moment. “Then let her decide, brother.”

Viserys sighed again, rubbing a hand down his face. “I will speak to her.”

Daemon smirked. “Do that.”

Alicent sipped her wine in silence, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before she turned her attention elsewhere.

And so, the night continued, but in the shadows of the revelry, the pieces of a greater game had already begun to shift.

The morning sun bathed the Red Keep in golden light, cutting through the remnants of the previous night’s revelry. The Great Hall was quiet now, the last traces of spilled wine and crushed flower petals having been swept away by servants at dawn. Yet, in the lingering hush of the castle, whispers of the wedding feast remained, carried in the murmurs of courtiers and the amused glances exchanged in the corridors.

You had taken refuge on one of the open balconies overlooking the courtyard, reclining lazily against the carved stone railing. The air was warm but pleasant, a soft breeze lifting strands of your silver hair as you gazed at the sprawling city below. King’s Landing was loud, restless, always teeming with life—but from up here, it all seemed small, distant.

The events of the previous night had left you amused, entertained even, but not surprised. The court had flocked to you as expected, eager to assess, to charm, to scheme. Jason Lannister had danced with you beneath the watchful eyes of the realm, playing his game with all the confidence of a man accustomed to winning. And yet, even he had sensed that the victory was not his alone to claim.

A sudden clack of boots against the stone floor drew your attention, the measured rhythm cutting through the quiet. You turned your head slightly, expecting yet another bold lord eager to test his luck.

And then, you sighed.

“Of course,” you muttered, tilting your head as you watched the approaching figure. “There’s another one.”

Tyland Lannister came to a slow stop, his expression betraying nothing as he studied you. Unlike his brother, he did not smirk, did not grin like a man too confident in his own charm. His stance was relaxed, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

He inclined his head slightly. “Princess.”

Your lips curled in a faint smirk. “I should have known House Lannister only moves in pairs.”

Tyland exhaled a quiet chuckle, stepping closer but maintaining a respectable distance. “An unfortunate reputation, I admit.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you with a level gaze. “Though I’d wager most would consider twice the attention from our house a compliment.”

You gave him a slow, assessing glance. “Would they?”

He did not answer immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his presence feel intentional rather than coincidental. Then, with the same calmness, he spoke again.

“Tyland Lannister,” he said smoothly. “In case you tire of calling me ‘another one.’”

Your smirk deepened. “And I suppose you are here to make your own attempt at charming me?”

His expression did not shift, nor did he reach for dramatics the way Jason would have. Instead, he merely gave a small shrug, as if the matter was of no true consequence. “Would you like me to?”

That was… unexpected.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, intrigued. Unlike his brother, Tyland did not seek to overwhelm with wit or flair. His confidence was quieter, subtler, a blade hidden beneath silk rather than one displayed openly for admiration. He was not playing Jason’s game. He was playing his own.

Interesting.

You leaned back against the railing, tilting your head. “And if I said no?”

Tyland didn’t hesitate. “Then I would simply continue on my way to the council chamber.”

Your smirk did not fade. “How dutiful.”

“I try,” he said, though there was a flicker of something behind his words.

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “Two Lannister brothers,” you mused. “One comes to me with theatrics and golden smiles. The other appears as though he could take or leave the interaction entirely.” Your violet eyes gleamed with amusement. “Tell me, Lord Tyland, which approach do you think is more effective?”

Tyland studied you for a moment, his gaze steady. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stepped forward, close enough that the space between you was no longer so impersonal.

“I suppose that depends,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Would you rather be chased, princess?”

You arched a brow, your fingers tapping idly against the stone railing. “Is that what Jason was doing last night?”

Tyland’s lips quirked slightly. “Jason is… determined. But determination does not always yield success.”

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting your chin up slightly. “And you? Are you determined?”

He watched you carefully. “Not in the way my brother is.”

Your smirk deepened. “How fortunate. I was beginning to wonder if I should expect a marriage proposal before midday.”

Tyland let out a quiet breath of amusement, but he did not press further. His restraint was noticeable—calculated, even. Jason had filled the air with words, but Tyland allowed the silence to breathe, his presence speaking for itself.

You watched him for a moment, then let your gaze flick toward the corridor leading to the council chamber. “You should be going, should you not?”

His head tilted slightly. “Are you dismissing me, princess?”

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “No, my lord. I am simply wondering how long you plan to stand here, feigning indifference while ensuring I remember your name.”

Tyland’s expression remained unreadable, but you caught the flicker of amusement in his green eyes.

“A fair observation,” he admitted. “Perhaps I should take my leave before I become predictable.”

You leaned slightly closer, your voice barely above a murmur. “It is far too late for that.”

For the first time, Tyland’s lips twitched in something that almost resembled a real smile.

He inclined his head. “Until next time, princess.”

And with that, he stepped away, his movements as measured as before, as if the interaction had been nothing more than an afterthought.

But as you watched him go, your smirk did not fade.

Unlike Jason, Tyland had not sought to impress you.

And that, you thought, might have been his most impressive move of all.

[naffeclipse]

Champion

Gladiator!Reader x Gods!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

This was such a fun and unique fic to write and I'm honored @drops-of-the-sun requested my writing for their AU! A mix of gladiators and gods with two offers and difficult choices. I also loved describing the boys as gods and how they interacted with their champion!

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

The domus, a large house, stands tall and grand. In the shadow of the colosseum, it is a mere footstep of smooth marble but no less imposing. The double doors are gilded in gold, and the guards escorting you speak not a word as they push you through the entrance and into the atrium. You gaze around, wary. A large central hall is open at the roof, allowing sunlight to stream down and open up what would otherwise be drenched in shadows. Lavish decorations of gold vases, jewel-bright pottery, and marbled floors scream of the high importance of those residing here. The walls are splashed in frescoes of deep blue midnights and burning yellow mornings; the glorious depictions of the astral beings who must use this as a villa during the god games.

Why do they summon you now?

Aligned with the front door is a dark curtain of blue speckled with tiny yellow stars separating a study from the rest of the building. The guard pushes you towards it. You glare back at the rudeness of your escort. Though you are still a captive, you are a famous gladiator. Your renowned skills earn you much recognition within the colosseum, and though fame does not grant you freedom, it provides you with status. Status that should keep from being treated so harshly, like a lamb led to slaughter. 

Unless that’s what you have become in such a short time. The god games are soon. Your heart cools like iron left out to crumble and crack at the thought of your patrons choosing to cast you aside for another—and forsake your chance for freedom.

A strong, steady voice speaks beyond the curtain.

“Enter, our champion.”

The guards step back in a unison beat of footsteps, standing tall and fearful of the gods they serve.

You however straighten with grizzled anticipation. You smooth down your chilton, a knee-length, short-sleeved tunic, and adjust the cloak carefully wrapped around your body. Stepping forward, you sweep the curtain aside and enter the study.

The room glitters lowly with the light filtering in from small square windows. A glow from the bronze couches, overrun with plush cushions, brightens the space. A center table piece of polished wood lies gilded in gold. The walls are finely decorated in frescoes of yellow ochre and blues so dark they’re almost black. 

Two astral beings fill the room with their radiance. You remain guarded as you bow yourself before them in reverence. Your patrons are powerful. You do not trust them.

One steps forward, his body flickering with living flames. He dons dark armor, cladded with a rich red cloak down his back. Gold chains bridge over his chest and attach to his shoulders with the rich symbol of the sun. Aptly decorated, for he is Sun.

A marking that is upon your lower back, a stamp of claim when you first became their champion, shares the symbol.

The second astral being leans against the wall, draped in shadows. Moon. You resist a shiver as his crimson, otherworldly eyes look over you with an expression you can’t read. He lingers on the scar on your face, and you nearly turn your head away in anger that he would openly gaze at the marred flesh you despise. His arms are folded, and his skin is the living flesh of the night sky, dark and deep blue, with tiny stars speckling his body. He wears gray linen, thin and climbing up his throat. A tendril not unlike a nightcap falls over his shoulder from behind his head, shimmering softly.

“Welcome,” Sun greets boldly. He gestures an open arm over the couches. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You silently pad to the bronze seat. Sitting down, you loathe how they stand over you, lording, commanding, an untouchable power radiating from their beings.

“You are stunning, our champion.” Sun steps closer, and draws his finger along the scar of your face, leaving a hot trail over the bridge of your nose. “Your physical prowess is lethal and your strategic cunning is a marvel to behold.”

You hold very still, jaw clenched and muscles pulled taut along the length of your body. The beat of your heart jumps.

“Yes?” you inquire.

Sun flashes a burning smile, his pale eyes flicking like candlelight.

“We have an offer for you.”

Moon steps forward. He studies you fiercely, eyes half-lidded before he speaks.

“Become our consort.”

You stare, struck by the astral beings. A thick haze takes over your mind.

They already claim you, a marking of a moon and sun sitting on your lower back, circled in black. You, their champion. But to become a consort would mean a fight you have never faced before. Would they use you? Bleed you dry of all your mortal love before casting you aside? Do they only care to preserve their favorite fighter?

You don’t dare lean into their silvered words. How can you?

“We are waiting for your answer, my champion.” Sun steps closer. He takes your hand and brings it to his mouth where the temperance warmth of his flames lick your knuckles. “You have never been so uncertain in battle. Why begin now?”

“If you accept, you will have freedom,” Moon rasps darkly. He slips like a shadows to your side. He gathers your other hand and drags the back of his finger down a scar that cuts the length of your forearm. “You may refuse if you wish.”

“And rot in the colosseum,” Sun punctures cheerfully. 

You shiver in equal parts fear and uncertainty.

Freedom. You could see your mother again, after all these years. She was frail before you were thrown into the gladiator fights. You have often imagined how unkind the years have been to her and your younger brother while you’ve been held away in the colosseum. How big has your brother grown? Has he moved on? Begun his own life? You hope so.

The two gods loom over you. You cannot keep them waiting.

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. This is not the simple task of cutting another down. This is your fate of dancing between the will of astral beings and your desires. 

Can you trust your patrons?

“I beg, my lords, for time to consider this most gracious offer,” you speak, cool and cordial, but careful.

The flames of Sun’s being flare for a heartbeat, and the heat upon your hand creeps to an unbearable degree. Moon’s hand tightens around your wrist as if to place you in shackles. Would it matter to them if a consort is willing or not?

Sun grins and releases your hand. “Very well. A day should be plenty for you to understand what a gift this is. Moon?”

“Agreed.” He sets your hand back on your lap with a rubied stare. “You may go.”

You bow again and slowly rise. Without a word, you leave their presence, their stares cutting through your spine and into your very core before the curtain falls. You breathe out.

Is freedom worth the price of becoming two gods’ consort?

Your quarters are meager, dusty pale walls with simple wooden furniture strangely strewed with lavish gifts from rich contributors and sponsors of your battles. There are letters from those you celebrate your victories and root for more bloodshed by your hand. 

If you accept being Sun’s and Moon’s consort, you are then slotted in as their champion for the god games, and winning such a battle would win you everything. Your gods’ affections, freedom, and the power to choose your fate—should your lords treat you well and properly.

You don’t believe they will simply adore you. They yearn for something. They wish to use up precious life at their whim.

But do you stay and fester, fighting until you grow older and more unbalanced, and a blade catches your heart?

What choice is there when it is between two shared fates of doom?

You do not light a lamp. You stay in the darkness and contemplate how you will answer in the morning. 

A disturbance pulls you from your brooding. Under your door, darkness shifts. Before you can reach for your weapon, a column of smoke slips into your room. It spills and twists upon itself. From it emerges a god.

Your eyes widen before you throw yourself down on your knees, and bow properly. Never had you hosted such a guest in your pitiful chambers.

“Eclipse,” you breathe.

“Do not speak,” he growls. The god holds his two sets of arms wide. His skin is dark maroon, almost colorless. His loose brown robes expose his chest and the burning orange star set within his chest like an exposed heart. His one eye glows not unlike embers pulsing within a fire. A fierce marring on his other eye removes it completely. He glides deeper into the darkness of your room, standing before you.

“Rise, and sit with me.” He moves without confirming your movement. Draping himself upon the humble workings of your dull wooden couch, he waits for you. His head tilts expectantly. His sharp teeth flash, waiting. 

You have no choice but to answer. Straightening, you rise to your feet and stand before him. His relaxed, reclined position on the couch is too uninhibited for your liking. 

The god smirks up at you, his tongue running over his wicked fangs.

“Sit.” He pats his thigh.

You do, falling into the god’s lap. His arm immediately wraps around your waist. You hold your breath steady as if you tread black water, afraid of sinking into his abysmal mass.

“I have come here to make you a most beautiful proposal.” His upper right arm finds your hair, cut short with an undershave, and strokes the scars over the back of your neck. It takes all your being to not shudder.

Your eyes flash to his in the darkness. 

He grins wickedly and snarls softly, “Become my champion.”

Your lips part, eyes widening. 

“Oh, I know,” he chuckles ruefully, “Sun and Moon think they can keep you all to themselves. But you don’t have to be tethered to them, dragged into their apathetic schemes. No, I will show you what a true champion deserves.”

You hold horrible still as his claws softly scrape over your hip bone. His eyes fall to your lower back side, where your chilton conceals the gods’ marking upon you.

“And you would not have to tell them you have chosen another,” he says, his eye half-lidded. “You need only to say you have accepted their proposal. Then you will watch them, study them, and tell me what you have found. What do they lack? Where do they stumble?”

You wish so horribly to speak but if an astral being commands you, you must obey. Your teeth grind softly together.

“Do this,” he lowers himself to your ear. His glinting teeth graze the shell of it, and you clench your fists, “and I will free you. I will adore you eternally.”

You hold yourself rigid under the god’s offer. That may be the ultimate demise. If you taunted Sun and Moon and betrayed them to another, how would they obliterate you? Your very being could be scattered to the cosmos like stardust. 

But Eclipse offers you something more. 

“You may speak,” he says and draws a clawed hand down your thigh. He clutches you close. His one eye admires you as if you were a golden crown.

Your mouth is dry. Wetting your tongue, you face the astral being as if he draws in the very light of the world into him. Nothing can escape, not even you.

“Do I have your sworn oath that no harm will come upon me should I agree to such a plot?” 

His single burning eye glimmers.

“Yes.” His hands tighten around you. “I give it now, pledging myself to you, gladiator. We will be equals. Though you will be consort in name, you hold the power of a god at your disposal when you accept my hand.”

You hold your breath. A god’s oath is too powerful, and unbreakable, even by their strengths. 

You could soon be free.

“I will give you the night to reach a decision.” Eclipse slides you off of his lap as if you were only a feather. He sets you sweetly back on the thin cushion of your couch. “By morning, when you return to Sun and Moon, I will have your answer. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Twisting smoke envelopes him. Again, the thick haze of his traveling form slips under the door, and you are left in the dark without his crackling orange light.

You don’t move. Your fate is in your hands, and you must choose.

[leonkennedybreedingkink]

B-E-H-A-V-E, ARREST US! (ITALIAN MOBSTER, LOOKING SO PRECIOUS!)

leon kennedy x fem attorney reader

warnings: unwanted advances, car crash, ummm he breaks into your house… slight misogyny in his internal monologue? ooc leon too. Obsessive behavior if you squint. copious amounts of pet names because he’s on some shit. more unreliable narration. title taken from kill v maim by grimes

an: this was inspired by the courtroom scene in the dark knight sorry hope you enjoy :)

Leon Kennedy looked like he was having the time of his life as he was yanked out of the prison’s bus, smiling smugly as he was led along to the courthouse. Some cops had to push the press out of the way as they tried to shout questions at him, shouting at the press to get back and clear the way. You wouldn’t think a criminal trial would get such a big production, and yet. The head of the Salazar crime family gets caught on RICO charges and the press goes insane.

He doesn’t get a glance at you as he’s ushered in for the first day of cross-examinations, chains around his wrists and ankles jangling.

The presiding judge arrives and all stand before sitting. The charges are read—hundreds of counts of extortion, racketeering, witness intimidation, obstruction of justice, et cetera. Then, he’s brought up to the witness stand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God, yadda, yadda. “I do.” He wears that smug smile like the Armani suit he chose today, sitting with a bang of the gavel.

And aren’t you just so cute, in your little skirt suit and button-up shirt. A cutie like you shouldn’t be in a courtroom, you should be in his bed. What a cute little Assistant District Attorney, he should’ve looked you up when he had the time, he didn’t know the DA’s office hired such adorable looking little things.

You look visibly uncertain when you catch him eyeing you up and down, looking back at the big bad DA—Redfield or something—who sits at the table looking extremely unamused. “Please state your full name for the record.” You tell him, thumbing through the little manila folder you’ve got in your hands, heels clicking on the floor.

He leans forward into the microphone with a small smirk. “Leon Scott Kennedy.” He’s not listening to a word you’re saying as you pace in front of him, only clueing in when you look at him expectantly, eyes bright behind your glasses. “Can you repeat the question?”

You look so cute when you frown in irritation, he might just eat you up. “I asked if you can explain the thousand percent exponential increase in your earnings in just one month.” You fiddle with the papers, eyes flicking off to the side. “Exhibit ‘C’ in front of you.”

“Ah.” He looks down and spots the cute little graph, wondering if you made it. “My investments turned out swimmingly.”

“Your investments.” You repeat flatly. Cute little habit you have of parroting him. “Who did you invest with?”

“Oh,” He waves a hand blithely, “a new company, you wouldn’t know them and don’t need to worry your pretty head about it.”

You freeze, not sure what to do as he flirts with you so openly.

The judge gives him an irritated look and says, “I’ll remind the defendant to remain civil.”

Leon shrugs it off, he’s made of iron, he can handle this little bit of pressure, it’s good for him anyway. And he loves a challenge.

You clear your throat a little nervously, leafing through the notes you have. Aw, your little hands are shaking minutely, he bets if he held them, they’d shake more. “This company has no record of existing before those investments.”

Leon blinks. See? The pressure’s good for him. He gives you a slight smile as he recalibrates, linking his hands together in his lap. “Is that so? Then where would it come from?”

“Why don’t you tell the court?” Comes out a little short and his lawyers object on the grounds of it being combative. He watches you count to ten before you calm down enough to nod to the judge when he tells you to tread carefully. “I’ll rephrase: I’m hoping you can tell us.”

Leon leans so close to the microphone that his lips nearly touch it. “I think you mean, you’re hoping I can tell you.”

Your jaw tenses, and that can’t be good for your teeth, a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be so stressed. Unexpectedly, you go with it, shrugging blithely before you say, “Sure.” Your move, is what you really mean.

He grins widely, amused and delighted all at once. “I had my friends do a little digging for me to find a suitable investor for our… money.”

“Uh-huh.” You shift a little, your confidence coming back. “What made you trust this investor?”

He comes to a pause—he hadn’t been expecting that. “What do you mean, counselor?”

You grin just this side of smugly at getting him slightly off kilter. “This investor has no prior portfolio of successes or failures. How could you trust them if you have no background?”

Leon’s chains jingle as he spreads his palms with a shrug. “Investing is risky. And everyone has to start from somewhere, Tesla wasn’t built in a day.”

The jury and gallery murmur before the judge bangs his gavel for silence.

He watches your face harden in annoyance. “A bit of an unnecessary risk, no?”

“Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” He throws out to see you confused, your head cocking at him as your brows furrow. You stare at him for a good few minutes and he can’t resist leaning in with a slight smirk and asking, “Cat got your tongue?”

The judge reminds him again to behave, if he does that again, he’ll be taken to jail in contempt of court. Oh, but that would be fun, wouldn’t it? It’d be an inconvenience for him, but to see the little look on your face as he’s walked away… he’ll keep that in mind.

You clear your throat and he watches you swallow, throat bobbing. “What made you choose to throw your lot in with a company that didn’t exist before the very month before your earnings increased?” He can practically see you telling him to dig a hole, any hole.

Leon shrugs. “Gut feeling. And my friends had given me good things from them.”

“How come their investments never showed up in their portfolio?” He watches you try to contain your glee. You’re too cute when you’re trying not to look too happy and remain professional, he bets if you won—which you won’t, he’s made sure of that—you’d be skipping down the courthouse steps.

Leon pauses for a long while, eyeing you as he considers all the possible answers—I never asked, why don’t you ask them, it was under the table—before he settles on, “My mistake, counselor, I’ll clarify: I’d meant that my friends had heard good things about them through the grapevine.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” You say, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ll repeat myself: that company—CAPCOM Industries—doesn’t have a prior portfolio of investments, good or bad. How could they have heard good things if there’s no previous work, if they don’t even exist before the month when your earnings went up?”

The defense objects on the basis of badgering, which the judge overrules.

Damn, you’re good, and foxy in all the ways that can be meant. Which leaves him with one option. He smirks and leans into the microphone, maintaining eye contact for a stilted amount of time. Eventually, he says, “I plead the fifth.”

Oh, beautiful. You couldn’t have given him a better reaction. Your jaw drops open and you stare at him for a long while as he sits back against the witness chair.

He’s cross-examined for a few hours before you’re all adjourned for a two hour long recess.

Cross examinations go on for five more days before closing statements come, this trial having gone on for a month at this time.

Defense goes first, blathering mindlessly about how Leon has a right to spend and earn his money how he chooses, on and on. He tunes it out, more interested in watching you pull your silly looking peacoat off and hang it over the back of the chair, dressed in a cute little button up and slacks set, your hair gathered at the back of your head. How cute, he bets they’d look cuter on his floor. Corny, but he had to use it.

Oh, the DA’s making you give the closing statement. That’s just cruel, you’re just a little creature and should be protected. To him, it just looks like a little girl trying to walk in daddy’s shoes.

You get up and shift around the edge of the prosecution’s table, your notes in hand. Wow, you really fill out those black slacks so well, he’ll have to thank whatever God is out there for building you like that.

He tunes in when you say: “You all have had the chance to hear many things over these past few weeks.” Your hands shake slightly, cue cards creasing at the corners. “That Leon Kennedy is being wrongfully prosecuted, that we have no right to poke into a man’s business and how he makes his money.”

He watches you pace in front of the jury, loafers whispering on the floor. That’s a shame, he likes you in heels, really makes your legs look long.

“You also have heard testimonies about how police have been hindered from doing their very jobs for fear of one bogeyman. You’ve heard testimonies of people he’s sold drugs to in front of NA meetings. On and on.” He watches you turn around and meet his eyes, tongue darting over your lower lip. He swallows when he sees that, stomach flipping. That’s embarrassing, he’s a grown man, he doesn’t get butterflies.

“When you take all that away though, all that remains is one man, this man.” You turn back around and point at him behind you. “No man is above the law, especially not one who terrorizes our city. We must take it back from him. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, for your time.”

The judge waves a hand and the bailiff takes Leon out of the courtroom to wait out the verdict in his jail cell. He maintains eye contact with you the entire time he’s dragged out of the courtroom, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

The next day, all parties are brought to court to hear that the jury is deliberating. The next day, the same. The day after that and the day after that are the same. The entire next week, the jury is still sequestered and deliberating.

Until you wake up one day, a pit in your stomach as you dress for court and wade through the paparazzi and news outlets on your way into the courthouse.

All rise as the judge presiding enters, all remaining standing when the jury spokesperson finally answers the judge. “We’re deadlocked, your honor.” She says solemnly, “We’ve been deadlocked for weeks, nobody will budge.”

Your stomach drops all the way down to mingle with your intestines, your knuckles blanching at your side.

The judge sighs and looks down. “Then I’ve no choice but to declare the state of New York versus Leon S. Kennedy a mistrial. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, for your time. Case dismissed.” He bangs the gavel with a sense of finality.

Poor baby, you look a little like you have to sit down when you hear that. Leon shakes the hands of his lawyers, smiling like the cat that got the canary before he looks over at you.

Even worse, you can’t retry him with these charges because it’d qualify as double jeopardy. The bailiff contemptuously uncuffs him and he rubs his wrists, watching you stand there with your mouth agape, looking positively destroyed at not being able to put him behind bars. He bets you look just a little like that after being fucked silly.

Jeez, little thing, you don’t need to look so damn sad about it, he’s sure he’ll slip up at some point and you can have your fun with trying to prosecute him and igniting your little cat-and-mouse-game.

He makes a point of waggling his fingers at you as he walks by. “Don’t be so sad, cupcake.” Leon says blithely, sauntering out of the courtroom like he owns the damn place. “Better luck next time.” He calls out, a smug laugh echoing off the marble as he walks away, the doors shutting behind him firmly.

You’re at the DA’s office for the rest of the day, trying to get the files in order for the archives because a lawyer’s office is a little like a church—you never get rid of anything that may be important, no matter how old it may be.

You’re in there for a long while before you go out to the parking garage around two thirty in the afternoon, your car flanked with paps. It takes a while until they let you go, having to lay on the horn until they scramble out of the way and you’re free to go. You’re most of the way home when you notice a black SUV following you. Your hands flex on the wheel as you speed up just a little, taking a right turn to test your suspicions.

They follow.

Could be just a fluke. You take another right turn.

They follow again.

Could be another fluke and really awkward, anybody ever tell you that you’re paranoid? You take a third, then fourth right turn, the SUV following you the entire time.

Okay, so you’re not paranoid, and you’re being followed. You take every almost legal action you can, too caught up in the SUV behind you to note the SUV aiming right for you on your left.

The cars collide and your air bags go off, knocking you unconscious and giving you a bloody nose. Thank God you’re not awake, otherwise, you’d notice that the driver gets out of the car to see how you’re faring before speeding off.

You come to when the paramedics are there and trying to stabilize you, your neck in that stupid looking brace as they ask you questions you already know the answer to, hauling your sorry ass into the ambulance after gathering your bag and hightailing it to the nearest hospital.

You’re given two of morphine as you’re kept alive long enough for them to cart you to the hospital. You’re in and out of it as the EMTs give the hospital the details of you being t-boned, loss of consciousness at the scene, pupils equal and active, and so on and so forth. The doctor asks for your name and you give it a little sluggishly, but correctly. They work on you in a trauma room, x-raying and suturing up the cuts on your face, feeling for any fractures on your nose and eyes and any abdominal discomfort.

When they deem you lucky you weren’t hurt further, you ask if they can take off that ridiculous neck brace—you’ve gotta fight them for it, but they acquiesce because you’re so good at arguing your case. When you’re taken to a hospital room to wait for the cops, you call your secretary and update her on the situation.

Are you okay? No. You rather liked that stupid car.

No, like, physically. Yeah, you somehow only got away with a couple cuts, bruises, a mild concussion, et cetera.

Are you safe? Probably.

Do you need anything? A change of clothes and something greasy in the morning, they want to keep you overnight for monitoring.

I’ll get some flowers for you! And a card! No thanks, that’s not necessary, the pollen makes your ears itch.

The police eventually make their way up and you give your statement, more and more irritated when they see it fit to try and interrogate you when you’re not under arrest, but that’s cops for you.

You have a fitful sleep because those lights are always on and your bedroom is usually kept dark, you like honoring your circadian rhythm. Which is why you’re awake at seven when you receive a call from an unknown number.

“This is the assistant district attorney speaking.” Your voice is a little scratchy from lack of water, you have to turn and clear your throat.

He chuckles on the other end of the line, the sound making you freeze. “Did I interrupt your beauty sleep, counselor?”

You straighten up. “How did you get this number?”

“I have my ways.” Leon replies casually, “How are you feeling?”

“Shitty.” Mild concussion, one major cut and two minor cuts on your face, a minorly broken nose and bruised ribs and sternum, but you’re fine.

He laughs on the other end of the line, warm and… affectionate? “Such language so early in the morning.” He tuts, his sheets rustling as he shifts.

You grind your teeth and count to five before you respond, holding your phone so tight you think you hear the case creak. “You hit me with a car.”

He scoffs, shifting his grip on his phone. “I certainly did not.”

“Then you had your underlings do it.”

He laughs again and you almost want to throw your phone. “You’re sharp.” Indirect confirmation, this entire conversation is inadmissible in court. Motherfucker. “I like you, you know.”

You pause, anger momentarily dissipating. “What?”

“I like you.” You can damn near hear his smile.

You pause for long enough that he wonders if the line went dead. When he checks, his phone still has that timer counting how long you two have been on the phone: edging onto five minutes. He waits for a little longer, eventually starting to feel uncertain when you repeat, “You like me.”

He laughs, just slightly tinged with relief. “Yeah. So? Is that so hard to believe?”

Coming from the man who arranged for you to be in a car accident? Yes, absolutely. “Yes.” You say shortly, eyes wandering around your hospital room. “Absolutely.”

He tuts on the other end of the line, more rustling coming through as he shifts and gets out of bed. You never would’ve taken him for an early riser, you thought he was the sort of guy to laze around until the last possible moment—but then again, you’ve known a lot of drug dealers in your time and not all of them were lazy. Dealing drugs, apparently, requires a lot of hard work, regardless of whether it’s street operations or organized crime like Leon fucking Kennedy makes most of his money. “That’s a shame, I was hoping I could take you out.”

And apparently, he has a fondness for double entendres, you just know he’s holding back a cackle. But even onions have layers.

“Not happening.” You feel immensely satisfied when he pauses this time, holding back a smirk of your own.

“May I ask why not?” He asks eventually, voice carefully level. You get the feeling that he’s never been rejected before.

You pause in turn this time, befuddled as to why he’s even asking why not. There’s many things: he’s evil, you’re on opposite sides of the law, you don’t even like him one bit, it’s a conflict of interest—“You know why.”

“No,” He says firmly, surprising you. Okay, maybe you can see why he became the Don. “I want to hear it in your own words. Why not?”

It’s your turn to pause, staring at your phone as the seconds tick by. “You’re a mob boss. Why would I want to go out with you?”

“Why don’t you?” He presses, voice hardening before he reminds himself that he catches more honeys with fly, rather than vinegar, or whatever the stupid saying is.

You hang up on him and put your phone on do not disturb when he calls you back. You’ve got a caffeine headache and a concussion headache and it’s too fucking early to deal with this bullshit. Your secretary finally gets over here around eight thirty with a change of clothes hanging from her arm and a bag of appropriately greasy food and a coffee for you. She pauses in the doorway when she sees you, brows furrowing in concern. “Jesus. You look like you got hit by a car.”

You frown at her, setting the clothes at your feet when she comes closer, passing you everything you asked for. Food gets eaten and burnt coffee gets drank first, grimacing with every sip. You can’t change yet, still hooked up to all these monitors. A doctor comes in at nine-oh-five sharp, flipping through your chart before he asks the perfunctory questions and declares you safe to go home—gotta love the American medical system. A nurse unhooks you from the monitors and gently drags the IV needle out of your vein, giving you privacy to change.

You’re summarily sent home with a concussion care sheet and strict orders not to return to work for two weeks. You’ll stay home for a week at absolute maximum, but it’s the thought that counts. You and your secretary take her car to your apartment because yours is totaled and you argue with your insurance most of the way there. When you get out, she stops you with a gentle grab of your wrist. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come up with you?” She asks, teeth digging into her lower lip.

“I’m a big girl.” You snort, gently removing your wrist from her hold. “You left the key in the right place, right?”

“Yeah…” She says reluctantly, left leg bouncing.

“Okay, then. See you in a week.” You get out of the car the rest of the way and she calls back, “Two weeks!” Before speeding off. You make your way to the apartment building—one of the most secure in the city—and buzz yourself in, walking through the lobby and garnering a few stares as you walk over to the elevator and press the button for your floor. You lean against the wall for support, pressing a hand to your aching head.

You sigh once you’re inside your penthouse, toeing off your shoes and hanging your bag on a hook by the door, trudging to your room and collapsing on your bed. It takes you three days of medical leave for you to become officially restless, you hold out for the next four days before you come in on Monday to your desk covered in Get well soon! Bouquets. You pause and stare at it, then note a giant teddy bear holding a heart that reads: You’re bear-y cute!

No note for the flowers or teddy bear, but you know who they came from.

You have a normal month of work, discarding the bouquets Leon sends every damn day. Just how much money is he throwing away trying to woo you? Eh, just a penny in the bucket; when you were gathering evidence for that RICO case against him, you saw how much he made in a month, easily your yearly salary.

You come home from a long day—your office is litigating another for a miscarriage of justice, you haven’t come home in days—sighing as you hang your coat and bag up, freezing when you hear a gun clicking. “A little cliche, isn’t it?” You move a little slower as you toe off your shoes, kicking them over by the shoe rack. “The click of a gun as a greeting, I mean.”

Leon laughs, then puts the safety back on the gun, setting it on your coffee table. “Why not have a little theatre in your life?” He eyes you as you turn on the lights, revealing you, consummate professional in your adorable looking slacks and button-up shirt. “Anybody ever tell you that you fill those out really nicely?” He says, eyes on your thighs and ass as you walk over to the kitchen.

You grunt in disgust, pulling your hair down from where it was gathered at the top of your head. “How did you get in?” You ask as you fill up a glass with tap water. Really, you’d rather go for a mixed drink or some wine, but you don’t trust him enough to drink in front of him. This is really just the horseshit icing on the bullshit cake, to be honest.

“Pfft.” Leon waves a hand. “Key on top of the door. You should’ve moved it after your assistant came and got you clothes the day you got out of the hospital.” He shifts, long legs crossing. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Better.” You say shortly, keeping space and the counter between you two. “It’s amazing that I wasn’t more hurt.” You walked around with a butterfly bruise across your nose for a while and the DA had to keep you out of court until it cleared up, but you’re fine.

He smirks, pink mouth pulling up and to the side. “Yes, quite a miraculous thing.” He sighs and gets up, buttoning his suit. Is that what he thinks real people dress like? Jesus.

“I find that I rather like you alive, not dead.” He says conversationally, looking over at you and really taking the chance to drink you in, brows twitching together when he sees how tired you look.

That’s not how you’re supposed to look, you’re supposed to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and all excited. “You look tired, bunny.” He tells you, leaning against the table.

You stare at him for a while, head cocked to the side. “Work.”

“Ah.” He kisses his teeth, eyeing you up and down shamelessly. “There are easier ways to make money, sweetheart.”

“I love my job.”

He laughs, soft and deep. You shift a little from foot to foot, nails tapping against the counter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, babydoll.” He waves a hand and watches you bristle, shoulders stiffening and drawing up. “You can’t offer a guest a drink? I’m parched.”

You frown at him. “Guests are invited in. You broke in.”

He leans over and swipes the half full cup from you and turns it so his mouth can touch the imprint of lipstick you left behind. “No sign of forced entry.”

You’re a little too shocked to say or do anything. “Because you used the key.” You watch his throat bob with a swallow.

“Tomato, tomato.” He sets the cup down and gives you a debonair smile. “Anyway, counselor, I thought it’d been a while since we talked.”

You stare at him for a while. “And you can’t get yourself arrested instead?”

He laughs a little louder and your hands fist on the countertop. He strolls to your door and opens it up. “Where’s the fun in that? Get some sleep, counselor.” He calls out, door shutting behind him and rattling the pictures on the walls.

You wouldn’t think it after seeing him on the witness stand, but he’s got a dramatic streak the size of you.

Leon smirks when he sees you walk over to the holding cells, an unexpectedly stern look on your face. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, cutie.” He drawls, head cocking as he looks you up and down, eyebrows raising.

“So you took my advice about getting yourself arrested.” You fold your arms and lean against the wall.

He gives a dashing—and a little smug—smile, eyes flicking up from where they ogle your chest. “And you can prosecute me again, I love watching you work.” He stands up from the bench, wandering over to the bars. He leans forward, hands wrapping around two as his head cocks, still grinning like a fat cat who got the canary.

You don’t move from where you’re leaned against the wall. “You’d be wasting the court’s time over a speeding ticket. The DA doesn’t take those cases.”

“Ah, not a speeding ticket, beautiful.” He uses pet names so easily. He leans in as if to tell a secret—you lean in too, straightening up slightly. “What if I’d said I turned myself in?”

Your stomach drops. “I’d say that you’re a liar.”

“Ouch, counselor.” His smirk remains on his face. “I’m many things, including a bogeyman, but I don’t lie.”

Your face warms. He really remembers your closing statement? You’ve had two cases every month since then. “Legally, financial fraud counts as lying. False advertisement, for another.”

He scoffs, blue eyes rolling before he shakes his head at you. “Where’s your sense of fun?”

You were just joking, but telling him that takes all the fun out of it. “Why turn yourself in?”

“Easy, counselor.” His—clean, warm, smooth—hands flex around the bars. “I’m not on the stand yet.”

“I’m not examining you.”

His dimples show, eyebrows jumping up as he stares at you like you put the stars in the sky. “Touché.”

You can’t prosecute him anyway because of a legal hiccup; somehow, you think he meant for that to happen, to walk into the police station, knowingly not be read his rights and to confess anyway, thus violating his third or fourth amendment, that parts not your deal, it’s the stupid cowboy cop’s fault.

You’re there, trying to do a good impression of disappointment as the judge informs everyone that the case is dropped, yet again putting these charges—and all he admitted to—inadmissible under, yet again, double jeopardy.

Leon, for his part, looks pleasantly surprised, then a little quizzical as his cuffs are unlocked and he’s set free. He catches you by the arm after lurking by the door for you to come out, dragging you to an alcove. “I was read my rights.” He tells you, blond brows furrowed as he boxes you in.

“Were you?” You ask innocently, head cocking like a confused puppy—Leon almost wants to kiss you for it. “It wasn’t on the recording of the procedures.”

He stares at you; you watch him with interest as the cogs turn behind his eyes. Understanding clicks in place and you pat his chest twice.

“I’ll see you next time, cupcake.” You tell him, close to skipping away, you’re so giddy. He watches your hips sway as you walk away, lower lip between his teeth before a smirk crawls across his face. He walks away whistling, scuffing his dress shoes on the floor.

[guiltyasdave]

little lion

pairing: Oberyn Martell x OFC

word count: 394

tags/warnings: alcohol consumption, i think that’s it?

a/n: @catchallfangirl gave me the prompt “finally, something we can agree on”, oberyn and thirty minutes to write. this is the result :)

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here!

dividers by @plum98 <3

She sips her wine, tuning out her father who is rambling on about uniting houses and how much good it would do for the people of the realm.

It’s not about the realm, let alone the people living in it. She knows it, he knows it, everybody in the room knows it. It’s about power. It’s about the iron throne and ensuring who will sit on it.

The man two tables over from hers catches her wandering gaze and raises his own cup in a quiet toast. As he drinks, he winks at her. She hates the blush creeping up on her cheeks, hates the fact that he can see it, even in the candlelight, if the smug look on his handsome features is any indication. She hates his dark eyes, the glinting of the golden chain around his neck, the way it accentuates the panes of his strong chest, his golden skin, visible through his robe.

She needs some air.

Quietly excusing herself, she rises to her feet and leaves the hall, climbing stairs until she reaches one of the higher floors where the thick stony walls open into big windows, overlooking the city below them.

Lights are twinkling in the darkness of the night, until the city gives way to the ocean, moonlight reflecting off of its surface.

She feels his presence before she hears his quiet steps behind her.

“Prince Oberyn.”

“Hello, little lion.”

Goosebumps form on her neck. He’s closer than she anticipated, she can almost feel his breath on her skin. His voice is low, gravely behind her, his accent wrapping around the pet name. The stupid pet name that he won’t stop using and that sounds way too good from his lips.

“I told you not to call me that.”

He tuts gently, twirling one of the long blonde curls of her hair between his fingers, before giving it a light tug.

“Why did you leave?”

“I was bored.”

It might not be the whole truth, but it’s not necessarily a lie, either. He chuckles, still playing with her hair.

“Finally, something we can agree on.”

She turns her head towards him, eyes searching his. He’s much too close. He gently trails one finger over her cheekbone.

“We shall leave the talking to your father and my brother. Let me walk you to your chambers, little lion.”

thank you for reading! if you liked this, please consider reblogging, leaving a comment or sending an ask. interaction is what keeps writers going <3

[patchouii]

Some Hannibal & Will headcanons I have, just for fun:

. Hannibal has a sweet tooth. Usually he doesn’t allow himself to indulge in it, but every so often he’ll have a designated “cheat day” and make pastries and sweets. All of which somehow manage to utilize the versatility of his favorite secret ingredient, just for the wickedly ironic juxtaposition of it.

. Part of the reason Will likes fishing is because it’s an activity in a quiet, meditative environment that makes it easier for him to use his empathy to visualize the world around him as he wishes, sort of how he does with crime scenes. He started doing it while fishing with his dad, and he’d joke that Will would “go all glassy-eyed like the fish”.

. Will can use the excess of mirror neurons that give him his unique “empathy” abilities to mimic bird calls and even people’s voices really well, and he enjoys doing so. Sometimes he’ll say something stupid with Hannibal’s voice just to annoy him. Usually it’s something with a bad cannibal pun in it.

. Despite his criticisms of Will’s old aftershave, the reminder of their beginnings and how far they’ve come is too strong for Hannibal to resist. A bottle of it appears in the bathroom of wherever they’re staying for Will to use— it’s nostalgic, and it also lets him know where Will is if they’re separated in a crowd.

. Hannibal has an old scar where the back of his neck joins his shoulders. It has a faint chain-link pattern to it from abraded skin freezing to a metal chain and being pulled off thanks to the horrors of one fateful winter. Will never asks about flaying it off like he did with the Verger brand— he knows the answer.

. Will develops a phobia of deep water after the fall, his decision to take them over due to Dolarhyde’s camera still running for Jack to find and the adrenaline-and-euphoria l’appel du vide of the moment haunting him with nightmares. He refuses to let it rule him, swimming laps in their pool at night. Hannibal often joins him.

. Sometimes, instead of going right to sleep, reading, or having some fun before bed, they’ll lay on their backs side-by-side with their hands laced and delve into their minds together. Hannibal will close his eyes and enter his memory palace, Will often keeps his eyes open and unseeing and visualizes with his empathy.

. The actual first time Will kisses Hannibal is when he’s on Chiyoh’s boat on the Atlantic. He’s high on pain meds and roiling with emotion over Hannibal’s unconscious form beside him. It’s just a soft, weak brush of lips. In his feverish state, he hopes that Hannibal’s infection will spread to him so that he can’t leave him behind if he dies of it.

. The first kiss they really count happens when they’re both settled in Cuba, sitting on the porch of the little beach house Hannibal secured for them and watching the sunset, drinking iced hibiscus tea. Will only confesses much later that the red droplets on Hannibal’s lips reminded him of blood and he just leaned right in unconsciously.

. Even though they have to be careful with their kills post-fall, Hannibal makes sure to allow for one special kill every year. He sets up a tableau of a skinned man in the shape of a heart with flowers stabbed through the skin in a remote location and lets Will figure out how to find it by Valentine’s Day.

. Will lets Hannibal teach him how to do serial killing. It ends up sating his curiosity about the theories he’d had on the Ripper as well as further sating his dark urges, growing those appetites. The fact that Hannibal has his victims awake on the table sometimes is a point of contention, Will feels bad that the only part of him that feels bad is the part that mirrors the victims if he isn’t careful.

. Between Will’s empathy picking up on all the little details and emotional indicators and being able to copy them back and Hannibal’s analytical skills and expertise with conveying the image he wants through tone and body language alone, they can communicate wordlessly. They sometimes default to this, whether intentionally or not. It’s a little unnerving to watch.

. Will has a not-so-slight caffeine addiction after many years of drinking coffee to get out the door early from college to his cop years to Jack calling at ungodly hours. He won’t drink anything but instant microwave Folgers. Hannibal has tried to replace the coffee in the container but Will catches it every time.

[cottonlemonade]

heyy! SO glad to see you're having another event!! The last piece with kags was so cute!!

For this event- i'd really like to order a large americano for here with iwaizumi!

So excited to see what you come up with!

Working From Home

word count: 656 || avg. reading time: 3 mins.

pairing: post-time skip husband!Iwaizumi x chubby!Reader

genre: fluffy smut

warnings: spoilers, mdni, nsfw (ironically)

Iwaizumi sighed and stretched his neck. While he enjoyed a little time away from the very energetic roster of the Japanese national team, he was proven time and time again that he was not cut out for office work. The only upside to those days working from home, when he felt chained to the computer, was when your home office days overlapped and he could enjoy the comfort of knowing you shared the same space. Since you worked remotely often, he had made sure to look for an apartment with an extra room with plenty of natural light that could be turned into an actual office. He made a little game out of knocking at your door and announcing himself like a secretary would, whenever he brought you something to eat.

Today however, it seemed like you had finished early and he could hear the quiet bustling of chores as he focused on drawing up a plan for a new training regimen he wanted to try out next week. He sat on the couch, laptop on a tray over his knees, reading over the timeline when a small plate came into view.

“Here, hon. To tie you over until dinner time.”

Iwaizumi looked up at the plate in your hands but was met with the sight of a completely different kind of snack.

A washed out tank top clung to your chubby body - something you often wore while you two did housework. It was an old, ratty thing that was a bit too tight here, too wide there, and had a frayed hem from having washed it too many times. But as if he cared when all of that was paired with his wife clearly not wearing a bra.

“Is it my birthday?”, he asked, very obviously staring at your breasts.

You looked down on yourself, a little puzzled at first, then grinned.

“This is your fantasy?”, you laughed.

“It for sure is the start of one.”

You put the plate on the coffee table and straightened again, highly amused that your husband was not even attempting to hide his stares.

“I thought I’d get a jump on things and do some laundry.”

Iwaizumi didn’t miss a beat. “Can I be laundry?”

You giggled when he put the laptop next to the plate of apple slice you had cut for him and pulled you into his lap - you allowed yourself a bit of shifting so you could comfortably straddle him, your arms around his neck, fingers playing with his hair.

Not wasting any time with pretense he brought both hands up to gently grab your breasts, squeezing them when you leaned in for a kiss. You felt like you were back in high school and ignoring homework to fool around.

You chuckled against his lips at his now rhythmic squeezing. “What are you doing?”

“Just relaxing my hands, darling.”, he met your eyes with a smirk, “You know how important it is to loosen your hands every once in a while when working at the computer for too long.”

You nodded along, putting on a serious expression. “Is that so?”

“Hm hm. Trust me, I’m a professional.” He began kissing your neck, giving your now hardened nipples a few brushes with his fingertips.

You let out a moan when his lips went over your shoulder down to your breasts, exposed from him pulling a little at the neckline of your top.

“I remember you said something about regular exercise while in home office as well.”

“You’re such a good listener, babe.”

He lifted you off his lap to lay down the couch, swiftly pulling your shirt over your head, flinging it somewhere behind him and taking your nipple into his mouth.

Large, calloused hands gripped your fleshy hips and he groaned when your plush thigh rubbed against the hard outline in his sweats.

“What about work?”, you teased

“They can live without me for an hour.”

a/n: thank you for your sweet words! Please enjoy ^^ 🌟

[chatterbox-73]

.Sugar Daddy.

.Birthday bunny.

Izuku Midoriya x fem!Reader

This story is a smut story, I’ll more characters x reader one shots in the future and if you want to see a character please let me know.

You must be 18 years or older to read this...

🔞⚠️NO MINORS ALLOWED⚠️🔞

A/N: happy birthday Izuku🎉 also this one shot isn’t edited.

Summary/inspiration/prompt: what would Japan’s number one hero spend his birthday on…? Of course, he’d spend it with the top hostess in Japan with all his friends.

Word count: 3k

CW: NSFW and adult content, aged up characters, mention of contraceptive, illegal prostitution, anal play, pet name (bunny), bunny ears and tail, humiliation, voyeurism, oral (m&f!receiving), breast play, sex toy/butt plug, Bi Midoriya and drinking alcohol.

You stood in a line before a table of Japan’s top heroes, the men laughing and drank, cheering for their friend; who you had been informed was celebrating his birthday. The man in question was your nations number 1 hero and had defended the evil villain ‘All for one’ and his protégée ‘Tomura Shigaraki’, his name ‘Deku’.

“I have all the girls you requested, please take your pick…” the owner of the company said with a smile, your eyes shifting to either side of you, all the girls in the line shared no similarities; some were tall while others were short, some were plump and fuller while others were lean and bony, some had large breasts and bottoms while others were less well endowed, however you quickly realised what you and the other women had in common, you were the high ranking hostesses who were also unofficial prostitutes.

You did your best at hiding your amusement, it was ironic all these heroes, noble and just, and oh so willing to use illegal prostitutes. “Mr. Deku, do any of the girls catch your attention?” Asked the own and the green haired hero nodded, before pointing to you, “that one… she’ll do” Deku spoke smoothly, you boss nodded with a smile, “have her take the present we brought with us” spoke a blonde sitting next to Deku, he grinned and nudged his friend.

You stepped into the room just across from the room with all the heroes, now they all sat with the other women you’d been lined up with. You walked over to the table were a package sat, you opened the box and examined the contents, there was a navy green lingerie set lined with black lace, matching stockings, black red bottom heels… you examined the bra and measured it too your chest, a surprising fit. You looked at the underwear, if you could call them that, it was more like a small triangle held together by strings and a few dainty chains. However looking back in the box something mint green and fluffy caught your attention, grabbing it out, it was a pair of bunny ears. You then looked back in the box in search of the tail and to your shock found it.

“It’d probably be too late to back out” you sighed as to grabbed the small package and opened it, pulling out a rather large plug with a mint green bunny tail on the end of it, you had admittedly done many weird things and probably worse then this, however you’d never felt so nervous.

You stiffened your lip and began to get cleaned up and dressed, you’d eventually got to the point where you’d have to put in the plug, you twisted the thing in your hand and noted it was bigger then most of the men you’d entertained but you pervaded, squeezed a large amount of lubricant on it before you lifted your leg into a chair and began to push it in, there was a brief discomfort before your body relaxed and the metal of the plug warmed. You hummed as the fluff of the tail met your skin and the plug filled you.

Standing before the mirror you twisted and turned getting a good look at yourself, you ran your fingers over the tops of your breasts and down your front; you looked good, you most certainly wouldn’t deny that, you turned before wiggling your butt and the tail jingled, you chuckled before being pulled from your thoughts as there was a knock at the door, “almost done, our patrons are growing tired of waiting” called your boss through the door, “oh yes, I’m ready” you called back and the man entered the room, he stared at you for a moment before grinning and passing you a robe.

“You look wonderful” he helped you with your robe before straightening your bunny ears, “wonderful enough for you to take me out?” You smirked and your boss shook his head, “I’m more of a cat person” he replied nonchalantly and untucked your hair from the robe. Your boss guided you back to the room with all the heroes, he had a cake that he passed to you and explained you were going to disrobe, sing ‘happy birthday’ and then take Deku into the connected room were you’d do as he asked. Your boss opened the door and stepped in, the room was filled with laughter and singing, “oi that girl ready yet?” Asked what sounded like the blonde from earlier, “yes she’s ready” he signalled for you to enter.

Stepping into the room you noticed the other hostess had stripped down to their underwear or less, some had simply unzipped their dresses and slipped the top of the dress down to their hips, before taking off their bra, while other completely removed their dresses, and one even sat on your clients lap naked, you walked around the table and placed the cake down in front on Deku and smiled, “you there, get the lights” you faked a smile and the girl got up and moved, as you began to light the candles on the cake, before looking to the hero “Mr number one, may I ask your help with my robe” you grabbed his hand and brought it to the tie, he pulled it and watched as the robe fell down your body and pool at your feet, one of your other coworkers quickly grabbed the robe and took it over too the manager and stood beside him and the other coworker you had told to get the lights.

The room dimmed and you began to sing, you pulled Deku’s hand around you and rested one of your own on his shoulder, once you finished singing you lent down and spoke, “blow out your candles Mr Deku and make a wish… try to get all of them or you’ll get a punishment” before you whispered, “but even if you don’t get all your candles in one go, I’ll still grant all your wishes” you chuckle and licked his ears before standing up, the man got all but one candle, everyone cheered as the lights came back on. You lent over again and blow out the last candle before pulling them out of the cake, you wiggles your butt as you did so, the small jingle suddenly sounded so loud and it drew the attention of several of the man, some looked surprised and shocked not fully believing any of the hostess would have worn it, the blonde who you believed was behind organising this event sat on the other side of you had handed Deku a small metallic thing and gave your butt a good squeeze before focusing back on the topless woman on his lap, bringing his hands back to her very large breasts.

You scooped some icing on your finger and stood up straight, before wiping it on Deku’s lips and cheek, “I told you, I’d have to punish you if you left any candles lit” you giggled and licked your finger clean, the man smiled and looked at you before clicking something in his hand, before you knew it your knees slightly buckled and you grabbed tightly onto his shoulder and as strong vibrations radiated through your rectum, the bell jingled violently signalling to the others at the table the cause for your sudden reaction. “What’s the matter bunny?” Deku spoke his first words since choosing you, you shook your head and straightened up, “uhh… nothing… Mmm just fine” you moaned with a smile and grabbed both of his hands, “would you like to go now?” You asked however the man shook his head, “I’d like to have some cake first” he hummed and you looked over to your boss who nodded before quickly leaving the room.

You served the hero a slice of cake, however before he began eating he instructed you to wipe off his face, however this was no easy task as he had turned the vibrations on and off vigorously, you were then told to stand and wait for him, which again would have been easy enough however Deku had decided to turn the vibrations up so high the tail looked as though it began to wiggle, you moaned loudly as you felt the vibrations in your cunt as well as deep in your tight rectum, your legs shook but you managed to stay standing.

Some of the man laughing while others palmed themselves as you whine and whimpered, however your client remanded stoned face and after glancing at his crotch… flaccid. The blonde next to you however was both laughing at you and had already moved the woman previously on his lap to under the table where she was serving him… and yet your client remained unbothered by it all and simply ate his cake, “would you like cream, Mr Deku?” You asked and picked up the bowl with whipped cream, the man nodded and sat back watching you, however instead of dolloping cream onto the cake, you dolloped it onto your breasts, “oopsie, it seems I don’t have much control over my hands, can you help me?” You asked and the man replied by pushing his chair out and grabbing your waist in a firm grip, his eyes met your and instantly of the response your thought you’d get… something like a small blush and a laugh; you got something completely different. Deku gave to a narrowed eye looked that said ‘really?’, he looked at you like you were some annoying idiot, however he leant down and began to lick from your bellybutton where the cream dripped down to, before licking up slowly, the room filled with cheers and you felt a shiver as you watched his harsh and narrow eyes, he then licked over the tops of your breasts before he then pulled the straps of your bra off the shoulders, exposing your breasts to everyone, Deku’s large hot tongue gliding over one of your breast and you bite your cherry red lips before he licked over your other breast and took the entire boob into his mouth, you moaned and your eyes rolled back as he began suckling on your nipple, the room roar with cheers and you looked back at the man as he sucked and flicked his tongue over your nipple, while his hands held you tightly in place, his eyes closed and you found yourself glanced over to the remote for the butt plug, without a second thought you reached for it, however Deku caught your wrist and pulled it behind your back, all while still he suckled your nipple with his eyes closed, you gasped as he bit your nipple and grabbed the remote, flicking the switch up all the way.

Your body shook and legs buckled completely however you were being held up by Deku, you squealed and cried out loudly as tears formed in your eyes and liquid dripped down your shaking legs, your face and shoulders were bright red from the embarrassment… you were humiliated, having all these men laughing at you and the man who your supposed to be entertaining, is nowhere near interested in you, it was clear he’d rather eat cake and make a fool of you than have sex or even talk with you. Suddenly Deku stood, holding you up with one arm before leaving the table and walking over to the door that led to the private room, once entering and closing the door the room was completely silent, blocking out all the sound from the outside.

With a click the door was locked and the man took you over to the set of chairs and sat you in one before sitting in the other, he turned off the vibrator and placed the remote on the small table that was set between the chairs, Deku then grabbed the two wine glasses and the bottle of wine before popping it and filling the glasses, he passed you a glass and took his own, swirled the wine around the glass before smelling it, you watched as he drunk the wine. “Thank you for the drink Mr Deku” you weakly smiled, “it’s Midoriya…” he spoke and you nodded, “right, of course… thank you Mr Midoriya…” you straightened up as best you can, “I apologise if I’m not what you wanted… but just tell me and I can help in anyway you need me too” you bowed and the man chuckled, “that’s very sweet bunny, but you see I didn’t expect this was how I’d be spending my birthday…” he took another sip and continued on, “I honestly thought I’d be spending the night watching movies with my husband” he sighed and you gasped, “oh I’m so sorry, I can get one of the male hosts or I can just get dressed and we’ll only talk” you covered your chest with your arm however Midoriya only throw his head back in laughter, “oh no it’s fine, my husband and I are both very open, he’s blonde out there currently having his dick sucked…” he place his glass on the table “and we swing both ways… Its common for us to bring a man or woman into bed with us as we both don’t always like bottoming” he said and you sigh, “so what can I do for you?” You asked and he signalled for you to get in front of him, moving to stand between his legs he pulled you to kneel, “suck me” he demanded and you began to undo his pants.

You pulled out his large yet flaccid cock and softly kitten licked it, you wondered if he had been enjoying himself or if he was just lying to save your feelings, you began to lightly suckle on his tip and before long his cock stood tall and proud; it was huge, you weren’t surprised that his husband didn’t want to bottom every often. You pumped him and sucked and licked his balls, Midoriya hummed and patted your head, “sweet little bunny…” he sighed and undid his tie and the buttons on his shirt, you pulled his tip back into your mouth and tried to take him deep, gagging as you got less then half way, “too much for the little bunny, stand for me” he instructed and you did so without hesitation. Midoriya moved to take off your bar and slide down your pantie slipping them in his pocket, “turn and bend over” he sat back and moved, you felt his thumb spread your folds before the lightest amount of vibration came from the plug, you moaned placed your hands on your knees. Midoriya chuckled “tell me how often do men fuck you?” He questioned “I have sex about once or twist a day” you answered honestly, “I see and how much money does that bring in?” Midoriya asked as he reached for the plug and began to slowly pump it in and out, “just enough for me to live comfortably” you continued to answer honestly, the man humming and pulled the plug out completely and placed it on the table, “do you have experience with service to men at the same time?” He stood and pulled you to turn, you looked up at him and nodded, “yes Mr Midoriya, I do” you felt the man pulling you towards the bed, “very good… finally contraception… you use condoms but would you be willing to use the pill or an IUD?” He asked as he guided you to lie down, he slipped on a condom and pumped himself a few times, you watched him confuse but answered anyways, “I’m alright on the pill, condoms are so I don’t get sick” you smiled awkwardly and the man chuckled, “I see, thank you for answering honestly with me” he said as he moved your ankles to his shoulders.

Midoriya slipped inside you ever so slowly and gave you no time to adjust as he took long strong thrust, he held your waist and groaned his he intensely watched his cock slip in and out of you, he eyes flickered to your breasts which bounced with each thrust, “your so fucking beautiful, bunny” he hummed and sped up his pace. You however were in heaven, it had been so long since you had been filled this good, Midoriya’s cock pressed ever spot and his words had an unimaginable effect on you, after being humiliated by him, to have him call you beautiful had you clenched him so tight he thought his cock would snap right off. Midoriya laughed and placed a hand on your throat, he didn’t place any weight on it or tighten his hand, he simply just left it the and fucked you faster, “I’m gonna fucking cum… get up bunny” he demanded and pulled out of you before pulling the condom off, you whined and knelt on the bed, suddenly his hand grabbed a fist full of hair and pumping his cock, you leaned forward and suckled on his tip again before feeling his hot load seep onto your tongue, he throw his head back and moaned before pushing off him and onto your back.

Shock filled you as he climbed onto the bed and grabbed your legs pulling you towards him, and his without warning his face disappeared in between your legs, he groaned as he sucked and licked your folders. “It’s been awhile since I can ate a cunt so bear with me” Midoriya chuckled and continued to devour your cunt, that’s how you spent the next hour or so, his tongue and fingers take turned being inside you or playing with your clit.

You were shaken awake by your boss, “come on, up you get” he sighed as he helped you sit up and pass you a thick envelope, confused you opened it and noticed it was full of cash and a letter, pulling out the letter and reading it; you were thanked for your excellent service and… offered a job to work fill time for Midoriya and his husband.

You hadn’t the slightest idea in what they saw in you but you were certain the pay would be better than anything you were currently receiving. You’d swallow any pride to simply have to fuck two very attractive men and get a large wad of cash after every service, it was an opportunity of the lifetime, you really didn’t need to think it over at all.

Masterlist

More from ‘Sugar Daddy’ series:

Sugar Daddy Masterlist

Next - Satoru Gojo: ‘Not’ only you.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - XII

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters gen. warnings: NSFW, blood, biting, violence divider by animatedglittergraphics-n-more 3rd pic is BRZRKR #2 cover variant 😍

⚠Trigger warning: dash of noncon, if that squicks you DO NOT READ!⚠

12. the serpent deceived me

It’s been a while, since you’ve had a migraine. 

It seems like tonight’s your night. 

Groggily you attempt to open eyelids that feel as though they’re made of lead. The room spins at first, and you try to hold your head in an attempt to put things back in their proper place. You are prevented from doing this, however, because your hands are bound over your head. With a snarl you pull at your restraints, metal manacles biting into your wrists, rattling chains bolted securely into a stone wall. You cannot budge them.  

You look around in a panic, and realize you are in a cave. Candles in wrought iron sconces and on various flat surfaces light the cavernous space. It looks lived in. There’s furniture, a table, chairs, even books, like this is someone’s subterranean retreat–mixed with a dungeon. 

“At last, look who’s awake.” 

With fangs bared you turn towards the familiar sardonic sound. “You…”

It’s about all you can think to say at first, as you behold don Juan sprawled in a throne of a chair across the room, his legs crossed and his beautiful mouth pulled in a satisfied smirk. He looks good enough to eat, in a billowing white shirt unbuttoned at his throat, his slender legs encased in leather boots up to his knees. He looks like he’s stepped out of a different century, and you vaguely wonder if older vampires wear the trappings of their time out of nostalgia, or like a security blanket against a modern world they hardly recognize. 

“Where’s Chas?” you demand, looking around. 

“Who?”

You bare your teeth, hissing, “The boy. Our friend.” 

Juan shrugs, smirking, and you hate him so very much in that moment. “I wouldn’t know.” 

Your mind flips through all the horrible scenarios of what could have happened to Chas. Was he dead in an alley? Or did they just take his fucking hat to bait you? You realize this monster does not care, and will not tell you. 

The next question you dread the answer to is: “Where’s John?”

“Which one?” asks the vampire with a cruel delight, looking back over his shoulder. 

Your heart filled with dread, you look past him into the shadows across the room, to find John Wick bound in a similar fashion to you, his wrists in manacles, his shirt in tatters and his torso covered in blood. He’s unconscious, hanging from the wall, and with a sinking feeling you wonder how the hell they managed to pull that off. What did they do to him?

“Thank you, by the way, for sending him marching right into my trap. He’s a bit of a blunt instrument, isn’t he? So predictable, the lot of you.” 

“What?”

The old vampire scoffs. “Did you really think you were going to nose around without me knowing? You, so freshly dead that I can still taste the sunshine on your skin? I felt you snooping from a mile away.”

You purse your lips, frustrated, mostly with yourself. You’d thought you were being careful. Turns out you still have a lot to learn. It might not matter, if you can’t figure out how to get out of these damned restraints…

“Um. Yeah, kind of,” you admit, pulling on your manacles again.  

He laughs at you, a malevolent, diabolical sound that grates you to the marrow of your bones. God, but you really do hate him. 

“He killed a great deal of my vampires though. I do not appreciate being forced underground.” You can sense there are other vampires around, lurking in the shadows. It feels like he still has plenty of minions to do his bidding. 

“Sucks to be you.”

“We’ll see who sucks who.” He stands from his seat, raking you up and down with a look that leaves you feeling decidedly unclean. “You are cute. I will give your suitors that.” 

You frown, unsure how he knows you have more than one…but then, maybe from now on you should just assume this snake knows everything. He’s far too clever. What chance did any of you have, against a thing that’s lived as long as he has? You sag in your chains in your despair, feeling helpless and stupid. Your only hope is that Constantine is still out there…but you realize that you hope he focuses on saving the world, rather than saving you. 

“Oh,” says Juan with false lament, pursing his lips in a pout that should look ridiculous on a grown man, but somehow…why is he so fucking beautiful? But you know it is like the serpents of the jungle; the ones most pleasing to the eye will prove the most deadly. “Giving up so soon? That’s no fun, the games have only just begun!”

You glare at him, for what it’s worth. “Why…would Hell on Earth seem like fun to you?”

He shrugs, approaching you with slow, deliberate steps, a predator stalking his prey. “The High Table has made life…untenable for my liking. It’s time to put them in their place.”  

“You’re crazy.” 

Before you can blink he’s standing before you, delivering a backhanded slap that rocks your head sideways into the stone. “You are a mere child, compared to the years I have lived. Do not question things you cannot understand.” 

You taste blood in your mouth, and you know it paints your smile red. “And, you’re a huge asshole.” 

He laughs, pinching your chin between two fingers in a vice-like grip. “That, I will give you, querida. But if you behave yourself…” He steps in so that there’s barely a hair’s breadth between you. “You may have a seat at my side, rather than in the fiery pit.” 

Still, you shake your head. “What makes you think you can keep the son of Satan to his word, once he has taken over here?”

“Not to worry, corderita,” he says with a mocking gentleness, his long finger caressing the curve of your cheek. “I’ve taken that into account too. He’s not so all-powerful as The Book would have you believe.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re going to double-cross the devil’s son once you get what you want out of him, aren’t you?” 

This pulls an oily chuckle from the older vampire’s lips. “Now you’re getting it,” he whispers. “A few more hundred years, niña, and you just might be dangerous.”

The hubris of this man is staggering, and fear seethes in your belly like angry snakes. There are so many ways all this could go wrong, and the whole world is at stake… But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because he truly believes it all belongs to him. 

“And what if…he’s planning on double-crossing you?”

Juan huffs with laughter, his eyes upon your lips, his finger under your chin tilting your head just so. “I will burn that bridge when I get to it.” 

He leans in to kiss you, and that is when an unearthly growl fills the cavern, a voice like the grating of ancient stones demanding, “Get. Off. Of her.”

Don Juan smiles wide enough to flash his fangs at you, anticipation sparkling in his high-polished onyx orbs. You realize he’s been waiting for this moment all along.

“Finally, the dumb beast is awake.” 

John Wick strains at his chains, the impressive muscles corded in his arms and chest rippling, his eyes glowing that unearthly blue. You know you’re an idiot, but you can’t help but stare, moved to your toes by the deadly magnificence of him.   

“Let her go,” Wick warns again, and there is a charge in the air, like a growing storm. It raises the gooseflesh all down your arms. 

Juan positions himself so Wick can get a better view. “My spies told me you’d taken a liking to her. You really think she’s your dead wife reborn?”

Wick growls in answer. “She is mine.”

Juan grins at that, looking between the two of you trussed like Christmas turkeys. “That’s not how it looks from here, cabrón.” 

Faster than the eye can follow, Juan tears your dress right down the middle, exposing you from head to toe. It’s stupid, but you scream, surprised by this violation that you suspect, deep down, will prove laughingly minor compared to what’s coming. Wick roars, and Juan savors it like his favorite candy, laughing wickedly. 

“I can’t fault your taste, dhampir, I will give you that,” he says, before grabbing you by the hair and slanting his mouth over yours. You struggle, of course, but it does you no good. He doesn’t even have to use that staggering mind-fuckery from earlier in the club. He just has you, and all your undead strength will do you no good against a creature as old as him. He pins you with that lithe body against the wall, so strong that he too may as well be made of stone. 

Wick seethes and snarls like a caged bear, and don Juan just grins. “I once kept a werewolf captive there in those chains for fifty years,” muses the vampire to you conversationally. “He won't be getting out.”

Greedily he runs his hands over your body, squeezing your breasts and tracing the lace of your bra with his thumbs, pinching your nipples cruelly through the soft fabric. Your body betrays you with a jolt of sickly sweet pleasure sent straight to your loins. 

Furious, you scream, trying to squirm and buck him off but to no avail. You’re not sure what’s worse–the way he touches you, or the way he laughs at your futile resistance, your complete lack of power in his clutches. He ignores the thunderous uproar behind him, feeding off the sound of Wick’s fury, delighting in both of your pain. You catch a glance of the dhampir over Juan’s shoulder, and you think that maybe don Juan is a fool trust in just those iron chains. Are the eye bolts wiggling loose from the wall? An eerie blue light is filling the room, and not just from Wick’s eyes. It is as though it is emanating from his very pores, and you find the thought of him unleashed scares you as much as it gives you just a sliver of hope. 

Engrossed in his distraction, Juan’s hand runs down the curve of your spine, disappearing into the back of your underwear, squeezing your ass then probing lower. “Mmm. I knew you’d have a perfect little coño,” he hisses in your ear, nipping at your earlobe as he teases your treacherously wet little hole. 

“I hate you,” you answer through gritted teeth, bloody tears streaming from your eyes. 

“Good,” Juan answers glibly. “It makes the victory all the sweeter, darling. But you may as well get used to it. I’m going to make you my pretty little muñequita before we’re through, and I will fuck you in front of your stupid pinche pain-in-my-ass boyfriends whenever I feel like.”

 He kisses you again hard, his mouth trailing to the curve of your neck. Wick continues to snarl, and over Juan’s shoulder, through the glaze of your tears you see that the dhampir is damn close to actually breaking free, one of the bolts in the walls only precariously attached to the stone, and the other close behind. You feel Juan start to turn to look, and you know if you have any hope of getting out off there you have to keep Juan occupied.

You cannot hold him, so you use the only means available to you, wrapping your leg around his hip and sinking your teeth into his lower lip. 

Juan groans, surprised by your change of heart, but not questioning it in all his outsized ego. He leans into you, forgetting all about the dhampir in favor of the woman in front of him. His greedy hands roam your torso again, cupping your breast. 

“I knew you'd come around,” he gloats with a smirk, pressing his bloody mouth to yours. 

That is when the cavern fills with the blinding crackle of lightning, and the whole world goes blue.  

__________

*querida - dear *corderita - little lamb *niña - little girl *cabrón - derogatory term, like bastard, motherfucker, etc *coño - pussy *muñequita- little doll *pinche - fucking *wow i know a lot of dirty words in spanish i’m so sorry mother 😆

[mshellimagines]

OC Ideas: List of Quirks!

(BNHA)

Quirk Ideas below the cut <3

This is essentially just a huge, not really filtered list of ideas so please don’t take it… Too seriously lmao.

OC QUIRK IDEAS!

Acid Cure - The user has sharp fangs filled with a poison that can heal when injected.

Animorph - The user can transform into any animal they have physically seen and been in the proximity of for one minute.

Black Void - The user can summon a void that contains horror-like creatures and objects.

Chains - The user can produce chains made from the iron in their body.

Claws - The user’s hands are razor-sharp claws.

Command - Others will obey any order the user gives from speech.

Conceal - The user can turn themselves and anything they touch, like clothes, invisible; and can turn others invisible as long as the user is in physical contact with them.

Dark Matter - The user can manipulate indetectable matter and form it into void-like weapons.

Dreamwalker - The user can walk in the dreams of anyone they have seen.

Dust - The user can manipulate dust in the air.

Face Shift - The user is able to manipulate their body and face to be a new, nonexistent person.

False Truth - Any lie the user tells will be believed.

Fear Eyes - The user’s stare can incite hallucinations in another of their darkest fears.

Flaming Skin - The user’s body radiates a deadly heat in which anything the user touches will burst into flame.

Fusion - The user can fuse two individuals to create a whole new person for up to an hour. The two minds may clash, however—and the quirks are combined into just one new one.

Gravity Well - The user can create localized gravity wells, pulling objects or people towards a single point. The strength and range of the gravity well depend on the user's focus.

Hallucination - The user can create illusions that disappear when touched.

Healing Hair - The user’s hair can heal almost any injury.

Identity - The user can transform into any living person they have touched before for up to thirty minutes.

Interface - The user can control and manipulate machines and electronics by interfacing with them mentally, allowing them to hack devices, control robots, or operate advanced technology without physically touching it.

Lava Lamp - Parts of the user’s body have the characteristics of a lava lamp.

Light and Dark - The user can generate light when experiencing positive emotions and darkness when experiencing negativity.

Liquid Composition - The user can transform into semi-solidified water to move around.

Magma - Part of the user’s body is composed of lava that is generated.

Matter Hair - The user can change the composition of their hair to be any reasonable solid element on the periodic table.

Metallic Grip - The user can turn their arm and leg composition into any (reasonable) metal in existence.

Mitosis - The user can split themselves into two people, themself and a distinct, separate person, like an alter ego, that they also control. More splits may occur, resulting in different individuals.

Photosynthesis - The user has the properties of a plant.

Polyglot - The user is able to speak, read, and write every language they hear spoken or see written.

Prosper - Since developing this quirk, the user is unable to age and stays the physical age of five.

Shadow Beasts - The user can transform darkness into solid, shadow beasts.

Shadow Body - The user can turn themselves into a cloud of shadow and can manipulate shadows around them, turning them into solid objects.

Sharp Wings - The user has wings made of a razor-sharp steel that can cut through almost anything.

Siren’s Call - The user’s singing voice incites a burning rage in others, causing mayhem and destruction.

Size Shift - The user can shrink down to 1/50 times their normal size or grow up to 50 times their normal size in a range.

Slime - The user can create a corrosive, jelly-like substance from their hair.

Spindle/Marionette - The user can spin silk from their wrists. As a unique touch, these strings can wrap around living beings and influence their body completely—movement control, as though people are puppets.

Spines - The user has large, shark-tooth-like spines on their arms, legs, sides, and head.

Stare-way to Hell - The user’s stare can ignite objects or people on fire if the user is angry enough.

String of Fate - The user can know the location of anyone they have seen and fallen in love with.

Succubus - The user’s presence causes others to become enchanted by them. They also have the features of a succubus or incubus.

Toxic Blood - The user’s blood is rich with a deadly poison that can kill when ingested by someone else.

Vampire - The user has superhuman strength, speed, and beauty with the ability to captivate others at will, but has to drink blood in order to keep their abilities and to live and can not go out in the sun.

Virus - The user can grow tendrils from their body and stab them into others, which enables the victims to be dazed and in shock for up to fifteen minutes and use part of the same quirk, inflicting others.

Werewolf - The user can transform into a wolf-like creature.

[phoenixinthefiles]

Wear My Love

Miles 42 x reader 💜...🖤🔗 (my first Miles 42! fic be gentle) @dolligent

There’s a Laffy Taffy wrapper about two feet ahead of you on the library floor, with sticky bits of the candy still in it. You can’t see the riddle but you can see the hearts scattered on the wrapper and the to-and-from tag on the front.

So many teachers handed out Valentine’s candy bags today, it was really sweet. DIdn’t help out the littering problem that so many students seemed to have. 

A sneaker came down on the discarded wrapper, a purple and black sneaker.

Miles stood in front of you with a confused look on his face.

“What are you doin?”

Zoning out so I don’t have to confront the reality of you hating my gift.

Obviously you don’t say that. 

“What are you doing standing on a candy wrapper instead of picking it up? That's not very eco-conscious.”

He gives you a flat look and you give him one right back until he smacks his lips and bends down to pick the trash up. He flips the wrapper around and smirks before looking back up at you.

“What kind of tea is hard to swallow?”

“I don’t know, what kind?” You ask with an eye roll.

“Reality.” He huffs a small laugh, because of course he doesn’t know how ironic that joke really is.

“That’s funnier than half the jokes you tell me, maybe you should start eating more Laffy Taffys.”

Like the mature 16-year-old he is, he throws the wrapper at you before sitting down.

You roll your eyes and crumble the paper up and stick it in your pocket. Presumably to throw away later but you would most likely forget. 

He keeps shifting in his seat and tapping his fingers on the table as you try to continue reading. You already can barely focus on your book not knowing if he’s seen your gift or not, now he’s decided to become a drummer. 

“Miles please.” 

“Yeah? Oh I’m distracting you, my bad.”

“It’s fine I couldn’t focus anyway.” You said as you turned slightly to slip your book back into your backpack.

“Y’know somebody dropped something into my locker?”

Your hand froze on your zipper, when you twisted to face him again Miles was watching you with his eyebrows raised.

“Really, what was it?”

He gave you a deadpan look and you sighed.

Your eyes widened when He started fiddling with the collar of his shirt before pulling out a silver chain.

You immediately started trying to get a read on him; eyes darting from the necklace to his eyes and back. Surely he likes it if he’s wearing it?

Right?

He doesn’t say anything though and you clear your throat. 

“Do you like it? You can be honest, it won't hurt feelings, I just want to know.”

It absolutely would hurt your feelings. More so from the thought that you had overstepped not that he didn’t like it.

Miles reached back and unclasped the dog tags from around his neck. He didn’t look upset, more like he was trying to figure out how to look. 

“I like it, I swear.”

Your breath doesn’t come rushing out of you, but the tightening in your chest loosens and you do take a deep breath. 

“I like it a lot. How’d you get all the information?’

“I asked your mom.”

It was surprisingly easy to find someone who makes custom dog tags. The hard part was psyching yourself up to ask Ms. Río about her husband’s birthday. It took you 15 tries in front of your mirror to come up with the least insensitive way to phrase your question.

It paid off though. Miles likes it.

10 months ago you would’ve thought he was completely unemotional about it.But over time you learned to read him a little better.

Right now he was fiddling with the dog tags and twisting his lips around. 

He was fighting a smile.

He lost the battle against his facial expression and a smile broke out on his face.

You matched it and let out a nervous laugh when he looked at you again. 

He huffed a small laugh and you tried to tame the grin that felt like it would split your face. 

“Thank you.”

You nodded a bit too quickly and you ignored the ache in your cheeks from smiling so hard and the warmth you started to feel in your face.

“You’re welcome, I'm just glad you liked it.”

He nodded and a little smirk took shape on his lips.

“Yeah I like it a lot. Just don’t know why somebody I’ve been dating for 10 months would slip a gift in my locker instead of just giving it to me.” 

Your eyes widened for a split second before you rolled them in an attempt to brush off your embarrassment. 

“I was just adding a layer of mystique.”

“Uh huh, or you was just scared.” He said with a shrug. 

You scoffed but he was dead on. 

“Me? Scared? You must have me confused with somebody else?” 

He rolled his eyes and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket.

You watched him pull out a small box and reach it across the table to you.

He rolled his shoulders back and forth as he watched you pick it up. 

Seems like you weren’t the only one scared.

“What is it?”

He deadpanned again, “What’s the point of telling you instead of you just opening it?”

You rolled your eyes and refocused on the gift.

Gasping as you opened the lid, you pulled out the locket necklace sitting inside.

You looked up at Miles and smiled.

“It’s so pretty.”

He smiled hesitantly and cleared his throat.

“Open it,” he rasped.

You did and your smile grew wider. Inside the locket was a sketch of you from the day you and Miles went to the arcade. It was the only one in the city with a full set of games that still worked.

“I haven’t drawn in a while y’know so…” He trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck.

You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen or heard him talk about drawing something. You can also name everything he drew. Being able to add yourself to that list feels…amazing. 

Trying to calm yourself down and not embarrass yourself by doing something like leaping across the table to hug Miles, you run your hand along the chain of the necklace.

“I don’t know if I look as good as you drew me.”

When you look back up at him he’s staring at you with an expression that’s much too adoring for you to focus on.

“Nah you look better.”

You immediately looked back down at the necklace in your hands and ignored Miles’ snickering.

As you continued to run your fingers along the chain you noticed something and your lips quirk up.

“Did you make the chain yourself?”

He rolled his shoulders again, “It’s that janky?”

You shook your head and tried to match the way his signature smirk. 

“Nah, it’s that good.”

He immediately caught on and let out a small laugh.

“I see what you tryna do, but you just not as smooth as me.”

Your eyes roll again but you laugh a little too, “Whatever Miles.”

You stood up and took the few steps to his side of the table and turned your back towards him. He took the que and stood behind you, taking the clasp and leftover chain and securing it. 

When he finished, you turned to him smiling.

He smiled back at you and straightened his necklace around his own neck.

Before you could second guess yourself you took a step closer and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Happy Valentine's Day Miles.”

His arms came up around you and you could feel his chest heave.

“Happy Valentine's Day, mami.”

[callsign-rogueone]

letters from samara - g.t.

Garrick Tavis x reader (Angel!) part of my Valentine’s Day celly! 💕 words: 1.0k 🏷: FOURTH WING AND IRON FLAME SPOILERS, part of my Garrick and Angel series, so read that first for context! no other warnings, just kinda soft and sad.

Someone drops a thick envelope onto the table in front of you. “From Samara. They said it was important.”

Samara. Brennan had told you that’s where Garrick and Xaden are. Your hands shake as you open the seal, but you relax at the familiar slant of Garrick’s handwriting. 

My angel,

I will start with what I know you’re most worried about: I am alive, I am safe, and so is X. He’s brooding in the corner of the room right now -- he’s not taking it well being apart from Vi, but command has allowed them visits every two weeks for Tairn and Sgaeyl’s sakes. 

We both miss you more than words can describe. I wish I could have said goodbye before we left, or that we could have taken you with us, but X wouldn’t hear arguments from anyone. I have never seen him that serious about anything before. 

I’m so sorry, angel. For all of it, everything. You didn’t deserve to be put through any of that, and I know how deeply it hurt you. It was terrifying to see you that way, so drained and cold. I can’t imagine what it felt like. 

Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, my love. You are the most kindhearted person I’ve ever known, and I love that about you, but you have to think of your own needs as well. You deserve peace and rest, especially now. Sleep in as long as you want, make time for your meditation. I’m sure the gardens would appreciate your attention as well; I swear you could make roses grow in dry sand as long as you smiled at them every day. 

I couldn’t bear to burn anything of yours, knowing that your heart still beats. I kept the things I thought to be most important to you and took them here with me. I will return them to you as soon as I can, but they are a comfort to me now — my room here feels like it did at Basgiath, with little touches of you scattered around. I keep watching the door, thinking that any moment you’ll come knocking to walk to class with me, or if I reach across the bed in the morning, you’ll be beside me again. I don’t know when I’ll see you next, but I know in my heart that I will. There is nothing and no-one that could keep me from you. 

Yours always,

G

On the sheet below, another.

Until I can lay by your side and tell you about my days, I’ll keep writing to you about them instead.

Being here feels like being a fresh cadet all over again, but different -- bottom of the food chain, getting the shifts nobody wants, but at least we don’t have to constantly prove our strength like we did in our first year at Basgiath, and we already have our dragons. 

One of Chradh’s relatives is here, which is cool. I think they’re cousins? They look damn near identical. I walked up to the wrong one on the flight line the other day -- thankfully the guy has a better sense of humor than Chradh, but I’m never making that mistake again.

Every rider here seemed to know exactly who we were when we arrived. Some of them have been more subtle with their distaste for us than others, but nobody’s been dumb enough to try anything -- probably because we look like we can fight, and because Sgaeyl is fucking terrifying, even more so now that she’s separated from Tairn. 

I just got off a 12-hour patrol shift, and I’m exhausted, but it’s hard to sleep without you here. I don’t think we’ve ever been apart this long in our lives. Being without either of you has never even felt like a possibility before; it’s always been us three together through the good and the bad. Someday it’ll be like that again, I know it will.

Brennan is the best mender I have ever known. If you choose, he can help you strengthen your ability, but please don’t push yourself too far. I need you to be in one piece when I get back. 

There are three more sheets underneath, one in Xaden’s rough script and two more from Garrick, the last dated four days ago -- likely the day he’d sent it. 

You realize what an incredible risk it was to write to you at all. It wouldn’t take a genius to put together that X is Xaden, that you’re hiding in Aretia, that you’d faked your death, or rather that your friends had faked it for you. How many hands did these pages pass through to reach you? How many others out there are on your side? 

You bring a hand up to cover your yawn, realizing how tired you are. The sun has gone down, a small mage light the only thing illuminating the corner of the study that you occupy. It’s likely nearing midnight.

“The letters and the books will still be there in the morning,” Tab says gently. “Sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

You look down at the torn piece of fabric you’ve been staring at for the last four hours. It has not yet sewn itself back together, no matter how hard you concentrated or “cleared your mind”, how gently you touched it. You’d even asked it nicely, but it did not dignify you with a response.

You set the letters aside for a moment, stacking up the books that you’d found in the house’s library about mending and placing them in a neat pile in the corner of the table you’ve been sitting at every evening for the last week. You fold the black cotton into quarters, setting it atop the pile -- you’ll try again tomorrow.

You can’t help but smile as you tuck the letters back into the envelope, brushing your fingers over the wax seal.

Garrick is right, this is the longest you’ve ever been apart, but as you gaze out the window into the starry sky, holding the letters he’d written you, the distance between you doesn’t seem that far.